


Unprepared for Ugliness: A Tell Me Another Fairy Tale Story Collection

by madame_faust



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, The Phantom of the Opera (TV 1990)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2019-08-26 16:24:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 29,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16685053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madame_faust/pseuds/madame_faust
Summary: A series of backstory ficlets, prompt fills, and other assorted backstory bits for my Modern AU of the Phantom of the Opera 1990 miniseries.





	1. Being Seen

**Author's Note:**

> So, in 'Tell Me Another Fairy Tale,' part of Erik's backstory is that he was badly burned in a fire when he was little. This takes place at the hospital in the aftermath.

_Four months. Maybe he waited too long. Maybe he didn’t wait long enough._

The nurses suggested that they show Erik pictures; photographs from the surgery. It was rare for a child to be so badly injured to recover as well as he had.

“The grafts are looking great!” Krystal, one of the night nurses reassured him. “He’s healing so well, my brave little toaster.”

“Getting through PT like a champ!” Ayesha crowed proudly when she wheeled Erik to and from his room to physical therapy. She ran her fingers over his hair fondly. “Just need to see about getting this kiddo a haircut.”

The staff - such a cliche - but they were amazing. The nurses came in and chatted brightly with him as they changed the bandages. If they had time they’d sit and watch cartoons. They arranged for volunteers from the local high school to sit and read to him, but Gerry put a stop to that. Erik was no one’s charity project and he was deeply uncomfortable with the idea of his kid - or anyone else’s kid - being used for community service credit. Let the teenagers read to old people in nursing homes, who could at least tell someone they wanted company.

Erik did ask whether or not Tim - the acne-riddled volunteer who’d been going through  _James and the Giant Peach_  with him - would be back, and Gerry told him that he wasn’t coming back. That, if Erik wanted to, he’d read the book with him. Erik hadn’t said anything else about it, so Gerry assumed he didn’t mind his visitor list being cut down to one.

In the future, Gerry informed the nursing staff, he asked that they please not send any visitors in that he hadn’t pre-approved. He trusted the professionalism of the hospital staff, but <i>not</i> volunteers.

He’d even kept his own parents at bay. Told them the risk of infection was too high for Erik to see anyone.  _Anyone_. They talked to him on the phone, told him how much they loved him. His voice wasn’t affected at all; unlike Bella there wasn’t any permanent damage - he’d been lying on the floor when they found him, under the line of the smoke. As far as Mémère and Pépère were concerned, he was the same as ever.

But he wasn’t. He never would be again. And Gerry had no idea how to handle that fact.

What did most people know of burns, anyway? They just pictured shiny red wounds that faded in time. Like scalding yourself on a hot pan. Who could imagine this? Gerry hadn’t; not even in his worst nightmares.

Gerry kept the pictures for himself. Studied them, like a student cramming before an exam. He forced himself to watch, every time they changed the bandages. And the first day they said Erik was okay to have the bandages taken off his head going forward, he called out of work and stayed with him. All day. Forcing himself to get used to it.

The hospital staff might have professional myopia - though one of the nurses was taken out of the children’s ward because of his case. She couldn’t stand watching a child in that kind of pain. Neither could Gerard, but he forced himself to cope, get through it. To play Memory, and Uno, and Sorry! (that last one was particularly ironic) with him and look at him and smile.

Then when he got home he looked at the photographs. And it was only then that he let himself cry.

Gerry was barely coping. He could hardly deal with his own emotions, and he didn’t have the energy to take on anyone else’s. So when Erik’s first grade teacher called and asked if she could visit, he said no. It was too soon. When his friends’ parents tried to arrange for a stop in or even a phone call, he said no. That he was recovering, but it was slow going. That he couldn’t handle the stress.

They said they understood. They said they couldn’t imagine what he was going through, but that they sent their best. Their prayers. Their love.

Nice sentiments. Nice people. But it didn’t mean anything. The best medical team in the tri-state area had worked on him and  _this_ , the scarred and mangled mess in those photographs, on that bed, wearing his son’s clothes and speaking with his son’s voice, but so horribly  _different_  from his son was the best they could do.

Eventually they stopped calling. Gerry wasn’t surprised.  

The head surgeon came to talk to him. Not typical, Gerry hadn’t seen him for days since the bandages came off. Dr. Okeke did a routine check of the scars, those places that were still bandaged on his arms, his legs, his feet. But everything was healing. The danger of infection was low. He’d really just come in to give Gerry a lecture about how to move forward with Erik.

“The nurses said he hasn’t seen his face yet,” the doctor said. “Not even when he’s brushing his teeth.”

“Well,” Gerry said, standing in the hallway, a little uncomfortably. Okeke’s head probably came up to about his shoulder, but there was a frank expression in his dark brown eyes that made Gerry feel about three feet tall. “No. He’s not…he can’t walk without the walker and he just brushes his teeth in bed. And the…he’s too fragile for a bath, he’s still using the bedpan to - ”

“I understand you want to spare him,” the doctor said, gently. As if Gerry was the fragile one. As if he’d gone, in the span of ten minutes, from a normal, bright, healthy kid, to…this.

The last few years had been bad. There was so much stress in his life, from the theatre to Bella. But never from Erik. He was a smart, sweet, helpful little boy. The one spot of perfect brightness in his life. Perfect.

 _He’s the same child_ , he reminded himself over and over.  _It’s just skin. It’s only skin_.

“But he needs to see - to accept,” Dr. Okeke said. “The longer you put it off, the harder it will be for him. Surely he’s asked to see himself.”

Actually, no. He hadn’t. He tried to be brave, cooperative, and he was working so hard at physical therapy, the whole staff said they were so proud of him. Gerry told him he was so proud of him. There were tough times, bad nights when he woke from nightmare and had to be sedated so he didn’t hurt himself. Fits of temper brought on by frustration over his helplessness, over the pain he was in, over the boredom of being stuck in bed all day. Those were becoming less and less as he got stronger. The school sent his worksheets to the hospital so he didn’t fall behind. The day he could hold a pencil without his fingers trembling in pain was a triumph for everyone.

But through it all, he never asked for a mirror. Never wanted to look at his face. He knew he’d been in accident. He’d seen his arms, his legs, his chest. Seen his feet and was learning to balance himself on his right foot. Erik  _knew_  he’d been hurt. And that parts of him would never get better. Gerry fancied that he already knew about his face and therefore there was no reason to tell him. Delusional. But couldn’t he be allowed one delusion?

No. According to Dr. Okeke. According to the child psychiatrist who’d brought the doctor in to speak to him in the first place. Erik had to be allowed to see himself. So he could grieve. So he could accept.

Gerry wanted to tell them to go to hell. He knew his son. Knew what was best for his son. Bella was torn apart by the whole thing; she’d had to stay at a treatment facility, to find the right dosage, to sort out which of her emotions were the natural side-effect of trauma and which were not. He was the only one who could be there. He  _ought_  to be calling the shots; the burden of the situation had fallen entirely on his own shoulders.

They were still in the hospital, though. And some decisions weren’t his to make alone. He had to trust the doctors. They’d saved his son’s life, whatever kind of life was left for him. And, deep inside, he knew they were right. Gerry couldn’t cover all the mirrors in the world, or dull every reflective surface. He <i>had</i> to see.

Gerry asked that they please be left alone - he’d always pushed people away when he was scared or frustrated. He couldn’t imagine that Erik would be different. How could he? How could anyone?

Maybe it would have been better if the doctor was there. Or if he’d taken the nurse’s advice and shown him the pictures. But then again, it might have been worse; there was no way of knowing whether or not Erik would even recognize himself in the photographs. Whether he’d make the connection between what he  _knew_  he looked like…and the grafted, twisted, shriveled thing he saw staring back at him.

They gave him one of the hospital mirrors, a flimsy little plastic-backed model. Gerry brought it with him, hid it behind his back. Erik peered around, trying to see what it was; he thought his dad had brought him a new book.

Gerry got on the bed and tried to explain. “The doctors said you don’t need to wear the bandages on your face anymore. That’s it…healed, as much as it can. But it doesn’t look the same, Erik. You don’t look the same. And…you aren’t going to.”

It was impossible to tell what his son was thinking, the skin on his face was too scarred and too newly-healed to move much. He blinked - his eyes had been spared. His mouth looked the same. But everything else…a mess.

Gerry wasn’t a proud man. Not too big to admit his failings. And he knew - absolutely knew - that if Erik wasn’t his son. If he didn’t love him with every fiber of his being, that if he saw that face coming down the street on another person he would have turned away. He might have gagged.

He sat down on the edge of the bed. Erik crawled onto his lap and Gerry let him, gingerly putting an arm around his middle.

“It’s okay,” he whispered the lie into Erik’s hair, kissing him on top of the head. “It’s all going to be okay.”

And then he lifted the mirror. At first, Erik recoiled, like you would from any frightening thing. Then he stared. His mouth dropped open. Then closed. His eyes went wide. And he started to scream.

Gerry threw the mirror down on the bed as Erik turned around, burrowed into his chest, eyes shut tight. His fingers clung onto his father’s shirt and he sobbed, wrenching, horrible sobs, soaking his shirt. Gerry just held him, waving the nurses away as they popped their heads in, concerned. God, go away. Just go away and leave them.

“Can’t they fix it?” Erik asked, hours later, exhausted, but unable to sleep. Gerry didn’t go home that night, couldn’t bear to leave them. The bed was far too small for a man of his size, but he stayed, reclining on his side, Erik huddled up next to him. “Do an operation? Make me better?”

“They did all they could,” Gerry said, rubbing his back very, very lightly; there was still a lot of nerve damage and he’d cut his own arm off before he caused that boy any more pain. “They did…they did a good job. The doctors. You - you’re a lucky kid. You were very badly hurt. And soon you’ll get to come home.”

Erik shook his head, burrowing closer to his father, pulling the covers up over his head.

“I don’t want to,” he said under the blankets. “I don’t want to go home. I don’t want to…I don’t want to look scary. It’s scary. I’ll scare all my friends away.”

Gerry looked at the faded construction paper cards decorating the walls. His entire class made them months ago, after the accident. There was still half a school year left, but Gerry hadn’t decided yet if Erik was going to go back. It might be too much - for him and the other children.

 _All parents lie to their children_ , he reminded himself. But this was a much bigger lie than the tooth fairy.

“You won’t scare anyone,” he said, pulling the blankets down so that he could see him. He brushed his fingers very carefully over his ruined right cheek. “It’s all going to be okay. I’ll make sure of it.”


	2. Coming Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Erik's first night home from the hospital, after the accident. Gerry is coping badly.

"Dad?”

Gerry had just gotten settled into bed with the television on - football pre-season superseded Jeopardy, to his disappointment - and he jumped slightly when he heard Erik’s voice from the doorway.

It was an adjustment, to have him home. Good - fantastic, even, but still…an adjustment. For both of them. For almost half a year Gerry had gotten used to his new routine of thinking of his house as a crash pad, looping endlessly from the hospital, to work, back to the hospital, and then finally home to shower, eat, sleep, repeat. Bills were stacked neatly on the kitchen table along with the legal paperwork he was filing on Bella’s behalf to the company that owned her building. Their lawyer was confident they’d be entitled to a decent chunk of change considering especially considering, as he so delicately phrased it, “the damage.”

“The Damage,” was still idling in the doorway with his teddy bear tucked under one arm and his comforter under the other. It was a wonder Gerry hadn’t heard him coming, loaded down as he was with gear, but then he felt like he was sleepwalking through life most days. Now, except for the doctors’ visits and PT appointments already penciled into his schedule,  _he’d_ get a chance to recover a little bit of his former sleep schedule.

“Yeah, buddy?” he asked, running a hand over his hair. “Do you feel okay? Do you need something?”

Gerry was already halfway out of bed, assuming Erik was in pain, brain running through a list of possible scenarios that would lead them right back to the hospital. But Erik was already shaking his head, limping into the room hesitantly before he stopped about three feet from the bed. 

For a minute, they just stared at each other. Gerry had spent the last few months getting used to Erik’s appearance. _He’s alive, could have been worse, best they could do, excellent range of motion, his hands are intact, chance for further surgeries in the future to improve his overall appearance…b_ ut despite the litany of small comforts he’d repeat in his mind to make it through the day, being home made it all so much more real. So much more final. This was his son. This was what he looked like. And there wasn’t anything anyone could do to change that now.

Erik broke the silence and asked, nervously, eyes down on the carpet. “Can I stay with you tonight? Please?”

His voice was a whisper and Gerry felt a gut-twisting sensation of guilt intensify, the same one he felt every time he looked at his son - hell, every time he _thought_  about his son. He should have gotten full custody. Should never have agreed to let Bella have him for the weekend. He should have gone to the apartment with her to look it over before she signed they lease. He should have, he should have, he should have…

In their Before, Erik’s request would have been met with a gentle no, and an offer to sit with him until he fell asleep and forgot whatever thing was bothering him that made him want to crawl into his parents’ bed in the first place. When he was a newborn, Bella whined about wanting Erik in the bed with them, said it was easier for her, that the baby would bond with them, yadda, yadda, yadda. Gerry said absolutely not, he didn’t want to set a precedent that would (in his mind) inevitably result in a kid who still wasn’t in his own bed by high school. Gerry was happy to go get him every time he cried when he was a baby and was more than willing to lie down with him until he fell asleep when he was a toddler. 

Occasionally, Before, when Erik had a nightmare or saw somethings scary on TV that bugged him, Gerry would sit by his bed, read him a story, or just keep a hold of him in the dark until he drifted off. He was pretty confident Bella let the kid do whatever he wanted when he was with her, but at his house, his son would abide by his rules.

But that was Before. And in the After…well. None of those rules applied.

“Sure,” Gerry said, after a beat. Erik smiled - the same smile he’d always had, which looked so  _wrong_  on that twisted, carved out face, but Gerry was practiced at smiling back - and hurried toward him. 

He wasn’t wearing shoes and Gerry reached down to lift him into the bed, swallowing back a thickness in his throat, willing away the tidal wave of guilt that threatened to crush him. Poor kid. Poor,  _poor_  kid couldn’t even walk without it turning into an ordeal. 

“Everything in your room okay?” Gerry asked as Erik snuggled down with his blanket and his bear beside him. “Were your sheets bothering you?”

He’d switched to an odor-less, sensitive skin detergent, but Erik shook his head in the negative, tucking Felix the bear under his chin. 

“Did Lucy stay with you?” he asked. Erik’s biggest worry all day was how the dog would react to him, having been away so long and looking so…different. (Scary was the word Erik used, though Gerry discouraged him. _“You aren’t scary, you got hurt,”_  he’d say over and over. “ _You’re the same kid. You just look different._ ” Maybe with enough repetition they’d both believe it.)

“Yeah,” Erik said around the thumb he’d stuck in his mouth. It was a habit Gerry thought he’d dropped in Kindergarten that he’d reverted to in the hospital. “She’s sleeping.”

And nothing. No explanation. They sat in silence as Gerry flipped through channels, finally stopping on a wrestling channel. It wasn’t going to promote sleeping, but what of that? Neither of them had anywhere to go in the morning. 

After a minute, Erik snuggled a little closer toward his dad, glancing slightly up at him as he did, as though questioning whether or not it was okay.

Though Gerry had never said it out loud, another reason he was so resistant to the baby-in-the-bed idea was that he was worried he’d roll over in his sleep and crush him. Erik was so tiny, so seemingly frail, it seemed like a rational concern at the time. 

Some of the old anxiety was back, worried that he’d hold him too close, squeeze him too tight, push him too far and hurt him. No more pain, had been his prayer for Erik for months. Don't let him have any more pain.

Trying to find a compromise between pulling the kiddo into his arms and never letting go and keeping the comforter as a buffer between them,  Gerry gingerly put an arm around his son and Erik tucked his head into his side, sighing quietly.

Quiet again, save the muffled shouting from the men on TV. Erik had always been such a little chatterbox. Gerry used to find it exhausting, but now this subdued version of his son was just another unsettling difference.

“You sure you’re okay?” Gerry asked. “Is there…do you want to talk about anything?”

“Mmm-mmm,” Erik said, shaking his head, pressing closer to his dad. Gerry drew the blanket up over his shoulder, creating a barrier between Erik’s arm and Gerry’s own. There. Nicely cushioned. The best he could do without resorting to wrapping the kid in bubble wrap. Erik didn’t stay up much longer than that and once he was sound asleep, Gerry eased away, resting his head on the pillow, positioning him on his back as gently as he could. He thought about carrying him back to his bed, but decided against it. Better to let him sleep.

Though Erik was sleeping soundly enough, Gerry’s own rest was thwarted a few hours later when Lucy came bounding in, crawling up onto the bed firmly over Erik’s feet. 

 _Couch_ , Gerry thought blearily. He’d sleep on the couch. Surrender the bed to the munchkin and the dog. 

Before he left the room, he turned the overhead bedroom light to the lowest setting on the dimmer, since Erik always liked a nightlight. On his way to the living room he paused just outside Erik’s room, intent on going in and turning off his nightlight. It was then he realized just why Erik might have been put off sleeping in his bed.

The bureau in Erik’s room was a hand-me-down, having been Gerry’s own childhood bureau. It was dark wood, one side covered in faded stickers rendering it unsellable, to his mother’s chagrin. It was up against the wall across from Erik’s bed. And, over the top, was an attached mirror.

When he and Bella split, she got the dresser with the attached mirror. Gerry kept a chest of drawers for his own clothes. Nary a mirror in sight.

He should have noticed. Should have taken the mirror off. Should have replaced the whole thing. Should have, should have, should have..

Gerry didn’t return to bed until 4AM, spending the wee hours in Erik’s room with a screwdriver and a crowbar, loosening, then prying the mirror off the back of the dresser. When he was done, he wrapped it in an old blanket and dragged it out into the front hall near the door. He’d take it to the complex’s dumpster in the morning. Then again, it  _was_  the morning.   

He went back to his own room, figuring he could get a few hours of sleep before Erik woke up. Erik had rolled onto his side in his sleep, but Gerry repositioned him on his back, to keep his airways clear. His hand lingered on his shoulder, brushed his hair, swept along his cheek as the tightness in his throat and chest came back, the guilt, the fear…Gerry took his hand away.

 Grabbing a pillow and an extra blanket he followed through on his plan and spent the rest of the night on the couch.


	3. Out and About

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Would it surprise anyone to know that Gerry has never sought counseling to deal with his own feelings? Nope? Me neither.

The first time Gerry took Erik out in public, since the accident, was about a week after he came home. It was hard, Gerry cashed in all his vacation time so that he could have two weeks with him. He’d stocked the house with food so they wouldn’t have to go to the grocery store and did a Blockbuster run so there would be plenty of movies for Erik to watch if he didn’t like what was on TV. He’d made the decision that Erik wasn’t going to finish the school year and was looking into at-home tutors since he had neither the time nor inclination to homeschool the kid himself.

Bella and her parents were coming in a week, to look after him while Gerry went back to work. He’d hemmed and hawwed about it, but really, there was no other solution; he had medical bills to pay, and her parents were retired. He’d sent a picture ahead, just to prepare them and the only response he got was that they were looking forward to seeing Erik very soon. As much as he disliked Bella’s parents in general, he had to admit they’d won a small part of him over forever for that. Consequently, every time he saw his parents’ number on the answering machine, he deleted the message without listening to it. 

  
But he had to transfer money from him savings to his checking account and he had to do that in person. The Mantovas weren’t able come up sooner and he couldn’t wait until they arrived to make the transaction. He couldn’t call the usual babysitter; he doubted they’d be employing her services again. He wasn’t even sure how long they’d be staying in Boston. With Bella out of the company, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to manage Arts X-Change anymore; he’d been looking for other jobs in other towns. Other states, even. A fresh start. They needed a fresh start.  
  
But they also needed ready money. And Gerry needed to go to the bank. And Erik couldn’t stay home alone.   
  
“Want to come with me to the bank, kiddo?” Gerry asked, as if he actually wanted to bring Erik with him, and Erik had a choice in the matter. He was finishing the end of his Lucky Charms, sipping the pastel-colored milk out of the bowl with a straw. Lucy was lying on the couch with him, her head on his lap. Bella aside, the dog was the only other being who’d had essentially no reaction to Erik’s face, despite the poor kid’s concerns that she might bite him since she wouldn’t recognize him.   
  
Erik looked up from his cereal warily. “Do I have to?”  
  
Gerry nodded, “Yeah - I have to, and we’d be in big trouble if I left you home alone. Come on, put your shoes on - you okay to do that yourself?”  
  
Erik put his bowl on the coffee table and nodded. “I’m okay,” he said, limping off to his room to get his shoes. The inserts were a little tricky to manage, but he got the hang of it. Now he was better at getting his shoes on than Gerry was. He came back a few minutes later, shoes on, wearing jeans and a long-sleeved shirt - that didn’t quite reach his wrists. Shopping. They’d have to go shopping eventually. The dressing rooms would be a nightmare.   
  
“Okay, shoes check,” Gerry said, looking him over approvingly. “Jacket?”  
  
Erik retrieved his jacket from the rack by the door, eyes on the floor. At first, Gerry thought he was just being extra-careful about where he put his feet so he didn’t trip - there was a trick to walking with the inserts and he stumbled sometimes, when he was tired - but he realized he was just avoiding looking in the hall mirror. He couldn’t say he blamed him.   
  
Erik zipped up his puffy, heavy coat himself and jammed a hat on his head, pulling it down to right over his eyes. It didn’t help. But there was nothing to be done. Erik stayed glued to his side as they walked to the elevator; it was the middle of the afternoon on a weekday, so they were pretty much assured to get downstairs to the lobby without meeting anyone. Still, Erik clutched his dad’s hand, in a way he never had before the accident. Gerry held his hand and let it slide; if it made him feel better, he wasn’t going to shake him off. Their building didn’t have a garage, so they had to walk half a block before they made it to the car; Erik hid his face partly behind Gerry’s sleeve.  
  
 _We’ll get a house_ , he promised himself.  _With a garage. Nice, quiet street. Lots of trees, fenced-in backyard. Maybe I’ll get him another dog._  
  
When they came home, Erik said he was tired and asked Gerry to carry him. He obliged, but realized that Erik might have had ulterior motives for being carried; that way, he could bury his face in his dad’s neck and shoulder the whole way up to the apartment. He was a smart kid; always had been.   
  
When Gerry opened the door, Erik scrambled in, buckling himself in and squishing down into the corner so that only his eyes were visible through the window. He said nothing; the psychiatrist said there would be an adjustment period (no shit, Gerry thought) and if he seemed a little out of sorts, that was all normal. Gerry was starting to hate the word ‘normal.’  
  
The drive to the bank was uneventful, though Erik didn’t say anything; usually he was a pretty chatty kid, but he’d been quiet lately, when they were in the car, or anywhere other than the apartment. Gerry parked as close to the entrance as he could and took a deep breath right before he opened the rear door of the car to let Erik out.  
  
Like father, like son - Erik took a deep gulp of air before he undid his seatbelt and grabbed his father’s hand again. Gerry gave him a smile and his hand a squeeze as he walked through the revolving doors.   
  
The security guard did a double-take when they walked through, but gamely recovered and managed a shaky smile, “Morning!”  
  
“Morning,” Gerry said, then, feeling like he should, gave Erik’s arm a shake and nodded toward the guard. “Erik?”  
  
Erik glanced up at him, but didn’t smile. “Morning,” he mumbled.   
  
“Day off from school?” the guard asked and far from being heartened by the man making an effort to be nice Gerry felt inappropriately irritated. He just wanted to go on, get his money transferred and leave. No third degree. No unwanted attention. But apparently this guy was trying to get his good deed done for the day, so he could go home, probably, and gush to his wife or his partner,  _I saw the most horrifying kid at work today, but I was so_ nice _, I treated him so_ normally _, not just_ everyone _can do that kind of thing. I bet I made his whole day._  
  
Erik shook his head and looked at his shoes, “I’m not going to school. I had an accident.”  
  
The guard had the decency to look guilty. “Ah. Okay. Chin up, honey. I hope you…feel better.”  
  
“Thanks,” Gerry answered for both of them, stepping a bit livelier toward the desk where - weekday or not - there was a line. Damn it.  
  
Erik adopted his new favorite posture, face shielded by his father’s arm - it was a good thing Gerry had a football player’s build, otherwise the kid would have been out of luck. But people stared. One woman gasped involuntarily, then turned red and looked away. Before, he wasn’t unaccustomed to people turning around to look at Erik, nudging each other and commenting about him, about how cute he was. It was the red hair and the freckles, guaranteed to melt hearts. Gerry never minded the attention before, now, though…he wished people would mind their own business.  
  
The teller smiled, a reflexive, neutral smile that she probably gave all the customers. It widened when she saw the top of Erik’s head, but then she actually  _looked_  at him. Her jaw went slack and her face ghost-white. 

Abruptly she turned around, muttering a hasty, “Excuse me.”

Gerry’s grip transferred from Erik’s hand to his shoulder. Right on cue, his son turned, burying his face in Gerry’s side. It might not actually have anything to do with him - with  _them_  Gerry corrected himself - but he doubted very much there was another cause. The other tellers took the people behind them while Gerry waited, increasingly impatiently for the girl to come back and transfer his damn money. 

She never did come back, but the manager emerged from a back office. A glimpse through the open door saw the girl sitting in a chair, a tissue pressed against her eyes.  

“I apologize for the wait,” the manager said, looking Gerry in the eyes, but not glancing down at Erik. The rest of the transaction continued as normal - faster than normal, since neither Gerry nor the manager engaged in pleasantries. It was clear that the manager wanted them gone just as much as Gerry and Erik wanted to be gone.

“Come on, buddy,” Gerry said, giving Erik’s shoulder a squeeze to get him to walk. He refused to budge.

“Can you carry me?” he whispered softly.  

“No, come on, we don’t have time for this,” Gerry said, giving him an encouraging little push. Erik clung on harder for a minute, then pulled away just slightly and shuffled along. Because he wouldn’t let go of Gerry’s side it was a long, slow, embarrassing walk to the door. Gerry almost  _did_  pick him up, if only to get out of there fast, but he held firm; he couldn’t carry Erik around indefinitely. There were things he had to get used to. 

“Hold on!" 

Gerry patted his pockets, feeling his wallet and his keys, what could he have left? He turned around and saw the security guard jogging to catch up with them. 

He stopped and stooped down in front of Erik holding out - of all things - a lollipop.

"All kids who have to make a trip to the bank deserve a lollipop,” the guard said, like he was making a grand moral pronouncement. Gerry was on the verge of telling him exactly where he could stick the lollipop when Erik inched slightly away from him and - wonder of wonders - took the lollipop from the guard’s outstretched hand.

“Thank you,” he said softly and the guard smiled at him - a real smile this time.  

“No problem, buddy. You have a good day now.” 

“You have a good day too,” Erik replied, sounding a little more like his usual self. It was stupid - so stupid, after all the kid had been though for tears to spring to Gerry’s eyes at his son being polite to a stranger, but there he was outside the bank, blinking back the waterworks as Erik let go of his hand so he could unwrap the lollipop (a Tootsie Pop - cherry, his favorite).

“Thanks,” Gerry called after the guard who paused briefly on his way back into the bank to give him a wave. Feeling slightly bolstered (and confident that he wasn’t actually going to cry) he looked down at Erik and asked, “Want to head to K-Mart? Get you some new clothes? I think you’re getting too big for that shirt, bud.”

“Um…” Erik paused, lollipop in his mouth, a look of concentration (well, such a look as he could manage anyway) on his face. “Um…do we have to? You just said we were going to the bank. Do we have to go to another store? Can we go home? And…I think my shirt’s okay. It’s not…too-too small. Just a little bit. But not too much. Can we just go home?”

Once upon a time, Gerry prided himself on not knowing the meaning of ‘can’t say no to that face.’ Erik was undoubtedly a cute kid. But not so cute that he could get away with eating dessert without finishing his vegetables, not so cute that he could stay up until midnight just because he pouted. Now though? Yeah, it was hard to say no to  _this_  face.

“What if we stopped by the Toys R Us?” he asked, trying for bribery. “They’re in the same plaza.”

That _almost_  did it, Erik narrowed his eyes in thought, but then he shook his head, asking his next question to his dad’s shoes. “Do I  _have_  to?”

Belatedly, Gerry realized the folly of the bribe - if the teller couldn’t handle his transaction, how much worse would it be to take Erik into a store with other kids? Adults were expected to moderate shock and horror in public. Children? Not so much. It was why he couldn’t imagine sending him back to school yet, after all.

“No,” Gerry said, holding his hand out again. Erik took it at once, drawing close beside him again. “Let’s…go home. It can wait.”


	4. Back to School I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gerry might be content with living the hermit life, but Erik isn't so much.

Gerry needed to start buying printer paper in bulk, like toilet paper. Something you don't think about until you're running dangerously low, then you enter a full-on panic when you realize you've run out. In vain, he searched in the closet of his office, praying he'd find some behind the stacks of old playbills and posters that he should have recycled years ago. Some of them were from Boston - no reason to keep those except for misplaced nostalgia.

Ten sheets. He needed ten sheets for audition sides. Maybe there were some old papers in his desk, he thought optimistically, that he could print on the unused side. He could claim he'd become an environmentalist. That would probably go over well with the production staff...

“Hey…Dad, can I bother you for a minute?”

“You’re not bothering me,” Gerry said automatically, looking up from his desk. Actually, this was stellar timing. “Did you use up all the printer paper - I’m not angry, I’m just making sure that I’m not actually losing my mind.”

A very real possibility in their household.

Erik bit his lip and nodded silently.

“Printing chords?” Gerry asked, but didn’t wait for an answer before he said, “Buddy, I told you, if you want more sheet music, just  _ask_ , okay? I’d rather spend money at the music store than do a Staples run at ten at night. Remember: once the shoes are off, they’re not going back on.”

To prove his point Gerry swiveled around in his chair and wiggled his toes in his argyle socks. Erik stopped worrying the lip and smiled. “Sorry. But…I wasn’t printing music. That’s what I wanted to…talk to you about. I - I found some stuff online…”

 _Oh God,_  Gerry thought, alarmed. It was too soon. Too soon to have the sex talk - he was  _barely_  nine.

“Okay,” Gerry said, slowly. Calmly. “What did you want to talk about?”

Erik entered the office - not in his socks. He wore his shoes from the second he got up until the second he went to bed. He was an expert at pulling his pjs on over his shoes and socks, without getting stuck. “I was wondering…um. Do you think…maybe…I could - for next year…maybe go back to school? Regular school?”

It should have been a relief, that question. From any other kid, a conversation about schools should have been less nerve-wracking than a conversation about the birds and the bees. But Erik wasn’t any other kid.

“Are you sure?” Gerry asked, leaning back in his chair. It wasn’t the first time he’d  _talked_  about someday going back to school, but it was the first time he set a timeline. “Remember, you can’t spend as much time on music, in school - ”

“At some schools you can,” Erik said, then handed over a sheaf of the missing printer paper. It wasn’t sheet music or chord progressions. It was…admissions information. For music and performing arts schools. “I…found these. Online. They’re…special schools where kids can go and learn regular stuff, but music too. And…they’re not that far away. I - I was wondering if you would look at them. Just…to see. If…if maybe I could go. To one of them. The applications are mostly due at the start of the year, so I have time to fill them out, I just have to write an essay…”

Erik wasn’t looking at him. He was staring at his sneakers, twisting his hands behind his back, now that he didn’t have anything to hold onto. For the past two years, things had stabilized. They’d developed a routine - regular classes in the morning with Mrs. Avedesian, then Mr. Lopez for violin and computers in the afternoon, and Ms. Turner for piano and music theory until six. He’d always passed the yearly homeschool exam for the state with flying colors and he seemed genuinely happy with his music studies. What changed?

“Is this really about school?” Gerry asked, setting the applications aside without looking at them. Erik followed the movement of his hands with his eyes, his shoulders slumping a little. “Have I been too busy, lately, maybe? Everything’s booked for the season, so I’ll be around more. We could take a trip back to Boston, if you want, whenever you want. We could go to the science museum, I know we haven’t been back in - ”

“No, you’re fine!” Erik exclaimed quickly. “I like the science museum, but…I don’t want to go away, or go on vacation. I just want to go back to school. I miss…I miss it.”

Even Gerry recognized his tone was irritatingly condescending as he replied, “Well, buddy, you only had Kindergarten and half of first grade to go on. Middle school isn’t just coloring and - ”

“People,” Erik said, finally looking his father in the face. “I’d like to see more people. Other kids. I don’t know any other kids. And…I could…I was looking online…”

Gerry began regretting opting into the internet at home.

“…and maybe I could get a - a mask or something. You know, so I didn’t freak anybody out,” Erik said, gesturing vaguely to his face. “Not one of those clear plastic ones, but like a costume one, only without a character. If you told the school…we could write it on the application. So they would know and maybe they’ll let me.”

Erik had given this a lot more thought than Gerry previously assumed. He deserved to be heard out - even if every instinct, parental and otherwise, was screaming at him that this was a bad idea. He’d only get hurt. And the kid had gone through enough hurt already.

“What if someone takes it?” Gerry asked. Kids were cruel and Erik - hell, even if he was a normal kid, he’d probably get crap for being skinny and red-haired. They went after any kid for any reason. A kid with a face like Erik’s - a kid in a  _mask_  - he’d be tortured. Beat up, probably. That’s just what they needed: more hospital time.

But Erik apparently wasn’t thinking the situation through to the worst possible outcome. On the contrary, his mouth twisted in an ironic smile, “Then they’ll wish they hadn’t. I mean…”

He drew a circle around his face with his finger and shrugged. Well, Gerry couldn’t fault the kid for not having a sense of realism about the situation. Three years on, while his face hadn’t gotten any worse (there was enough healthy skin in there that the doctors were concerned about splitting or having to regraft), it hadn’t gotten any better either.

“Did you talk to your mom about this?” Gerry wondered aloud. Even from another state, Bella’s influence could be felt. Not always for the worse - she was the one who suggested music therapy and it worked out beautifully. But she was also on his case to make Erik into a joiner - join the local homeschool activity group. Join a support group for kids with cranio-facial deformities. Join some other damned group. They were fine on their own. He ignored all the brochures she sent, all the articles she told him about social isolation and psychological repercussions from major physical trauma.

Erik didn’t show signs of having major psychological problems. Gerry dutifully took him to his therapy appointments once a week - always during his lunch break, since Therapist Dave had been pushing for Gerry to see someone, which was not necessary. They were doing fine. They were just fine.

It wouldn’t surprise him at all if Bella or her parents or her sister, or some unholy Mantova combination had put him up to this, but Erik shook his head. “Nope. I…I just wanted to. I wanted to last year, but we didn’t have the computer, so I didn’t know where to look. Could you…look at them? If it’s…like, some of them were super expensive, so I don’t want you to spend a billion dollars. But some were kind of okay, I think. And…I mean, you could just not buy me presents for stuff. If that helps.”

What parent could say no to that request? Not Gerry; not even him, and he considered himself unusually talented at saying ‘no.’

“Sure,” he smiled, picking the applications up. “I’ll look at them tonight. Clear my calendar - how about I get delivery and we’ll look at them together. We’ll see…we’ll see.”

It wasn’t a promise, but Erik looked overjoyed at the fact that he hadn’t been refused outright.

“Thanks Dad!” he said, running forward and giving him a hug. Gerry returned it, squeezing him tight as Erik swore up, down, left, right, and sideways that he’d be a good student, that he’d get straight-As, that he’d practice every day when he got home from school…

Gerry listened, noticing that not  _once_  in Erik’s litany of expectations - homework, practicing his instruments, tests - did he say anything about the prospect of making new friends. He let go of his father and practically skipped out of the room; five minutes later, Gerry heard him going to town on the piano.

 _He needs friends_ , Bella insisted whenever she told him about some new organization she’d looked up, or sent him a reminder about the children’s hospital’s annual burn unit reunion dinner (the very concept of which sounded intensely morbid to him).  _You can’t just expect him to be happy if he doesn’t have any friends. He needs a chance to be normal. You have to let him be normal_!

But that was the problem - Erik’s chance for normal was long gone. All Gerry could ensure was that he had an education, was allowed to explore his talents. Maybe there’d be a career for him someday; people worked from home more and more. School could be a compromise. As long as Erik had realistic expectations.

And the fact that he hadn’t said anything about making friends reassured Gerry that his expectations were entirely realistic.


	5. Worst Case Scenario

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fast-forward to high school, Erik's had to have another surgery that doesn't heal as quickly as he wants. Suffering from chronic pain, he starts supplementing his medical regimen with pills leftover from a classmate's wisdom tooth removal. He gets caught.

“Erik, honey?” Kadijah, one of the floor nurses waylaid him as he was coming out of therapy. Another really awkward session, since Erik wasn’t used to this guy and he had the painful awareness the whole time that the therapist - Barry? Maybe Barry was his name? Hadn’t been told about his face. He covered really well, but wouldn’t look at him very much and they spent most of the fifty minutes in silence since Erik didn’t feel like talking and Barry (Bernie? It might be Bernie, actually), didn’t know what would prompt longer response than, ‘Yes,’ 'No,’ and 'Whatever.’ “There’s a young lady in the lobby, she’s been here about fifteen minutes - I didn’t want to interrupt your session. I think she said she was your cousin?”

“Angela?” Erik asked, mouth twisting in confusion. He’d talked to her briefly that morning on the phone, she hadn’t said anything about a visit. She would have had to hoof it to get up there too, since she called him right after she dropped off Tommy at preschool. Mom was talking about coming up, but only over the weekend. And it was unlikely Angela would be able to get away. So, who…

Kadijah made a face, like she was thinking really hard. “Mia? Mya? I’m sorry, I don’t remember, pumpkin.”

Erik stifled a smile; Kadijah talked to all of the teens in the center like they were preschoolers, all food-related nicknames. Some of the other residents hated it, but Erik thought it was cute, she referred to one of the surlier kids as 'a regular ice-cream sundae.’ Still, there was the puzzle over who had come to see him - he did have a cousin Maya, but she was twelve and as much as he loved Aunt Tina, the  _last_  place she’d ever go to was a rehab center. She was too nervous about…well, everything. Curiously, Erik entered the lobby - clean, immaculately so, with weirdly comfy waiting room furniture and up to date magazines - then froze, turning away quickly.

Mia. His friend, Mia. Who was not related to him, at  _all_. Kadijah looked at him confused, but he only saw her for a split second before he brought his hands up to cover his face. 

“Erik!” she called out, he heard her feet galloping toward him, but she stopped short, just behind him. “Hey, what’s - oh. Oh, shit. They didn’t let you keep your mask?”  
  
“What are you doing here?” he asked, muffled behind his hands. Thank  _God_  for big hands, he was pretty good at covering himself up at short notice - partially cutting off his air supply too, but whatever, some things were more important than oxygen.   
  
Mia shuffled her feet. “Um…remember how when I asked you last week if I should visit, you said don’t bother?”  
  
Erik nodded; he distinctly recalled that conversation, in fact. So what was she  _doing_  here?  
  
“So, I didn’t ask again because I figured you’d…to be  _fair_  you didn’t say  _no_ …” she trailed off. Probably winding her hair around her finger because that was what she did when she was bullshitting. “And…um. I wasn’t sure if they’d be like, 'Back from whence you came!’ if I said I wasn’t a relative…are you seriously just going to have your back to me this whole time?”  
  
“Yeah,” Erik replied, a sick feeling rising in his stomach, threatening to claw up his throat. Why was she here? Why would she  _want_  to be here? 

Footsteps walking away - Kadijah, probably, idling behind the desk. Mia never shuffled her feet, she always skipped. “What are you… _why_  did you come?”  
  
She had come around to his side, her hand was on his elbow and he tensed, worried she might try to yank his arm down. But she just touched him, maybe trying to reassure herself that he was actually there. “Because I’m worried about you - we all are.”

“We who?” Erik asked softly. He assumed, after the shit he pulled, no one would want anything to do with him.

“Everyone,” she said, and started rattling off the names of their friends, classmates, teachers. “Niah, Jessie, Pete, Reese, Luis - everyone who hasn’t talked to you. And Darren - he wanted to fly home, like, screw study abroad, but I was like, that’s stupid, don’t. Dorf asks about you every day, he’s worried sick. He feels like…he feels like he should have realized that you weren’t doing well. Like, he poured out his guts to me during break, I don’t think he meant to, but he feels really shitty. No one’s  _mad_  at you, everyone’s worried about you.”

Mia’s other hand came up and started rubbing his back - like she’d done when they were backstage during  _Whistle Down the Wind_  and he was in so much pain he was sick. “Can we sit? Do you want to sit? I’ll close my eyes if you want. Did they take it? Or…”

“My Dad has it,” Erik explained, and he hadn’t fought it, he’d felt so guilty that he’d do anything, agree to whatever terms if they’d let him stay here. So his Dad would stop looking at him like he was a stranger. “They wouldn’t let me keep it, something about…I don’t remember, but I’m not allowed to have it.”

Group therapy was the worst. Several of the other residents opted into different sessions so they wouldn’t have to look at him. He sat in the back, kept quiet, kept his head down, trying to draw as little attention to himself as possible. The session leaders worried he wasn’t getting anything out of it, but it couldn’t be helped. 

“I mean…” she trailed off and her hand stalled in the middle of his back. “You don’t have to…I could  _look_ , you know. I don’t…I don’t mind.”

Erik shook his head at once, “You don’t know what you’re asking. So…no.”  
  
“Well, you’re stuck with me for an hour,” she pointed out. Her car overheated whenever she went more than ten minutes from her house, the trip to rehab must have been at least an hour. It wouldn’t start up again for a while, he knew that. Many a long sit in a parking lot as theirs to endure as the result of Mia’s jalopy. 

The lobby felt way too public, way to exposed - big windows, bringing in maximum light. It was the middle of the afternoon. Erik didn’t want to be there - but he couldn’t just tell Mia to go sit in her car, could he? And he wasn’t allowed to leave.

“There’s a…visitor’s room,” he said at last and added, feeling like…just feeling like dirt, mumbled, “Can you just…walk behind me?”

“Sure,” she agreed readily, grabbing onto the back of his shirt like they were in a haunted house - hey, for her, she practically was. “Lay on, MacDuff!”

The visitor’s room was semi-private, but it was only a little down the hall. Visitors couldn’t come into residents’ rooms unless they were on a pre-approved list - which consisted, in Erik’s case, of his Dad and Mom only. Friends were discouraged from being added as well as non-nuclear family members - too much potential that they might bring contraband. The room had a television set, a VCR and a rack of really boring movies. There was a pool table, missing a few balls and a ping-pong table with a sagging net. It was actually one of the more depressing rooms in the place, but the curtains were drawn. No door, though, and there were windows that looked in from the hall, just as an extra precaution. 

Once they were inside, Mia’s hands pulled his shirt a little tighter and she said, “Can I give you a hug?”

“Yeah, okay,” Erik agreed. “Just - ”

But she figured out what he was going to request. She wrapped her arms tight around his stomach and pressed her face into his back, between his shoulderblades. “Are you okay?” she asked, her voice, which had previously been light and conversational suddenly heavy with emotion. Erik dropped one of his hands to squeeze her forearm; he could feel the press of her nose in his back, she couldn’t see anything anyway.

“Yeah,” he said. “I…it’s all out of my system. They’re going to start me on a regimen of physical therapy so my shoulder doesn’t hurt as much. So I won’t…need strong painkillers. They hope.”

“Okay,” she said and sniffled, drawing back to wipe her face. “I’m sorry! I swore I wouldn’t cry, but I’ve been really worried about you! I just…I didn’t know what to expect, I was worried it was like  _Girl, Interrupted_ up in here.”

“It’s not that bad,” he replied truthfully. “It’s…like a therapy hospital. So there’s doctors and nurses and therapists and stuff. I’m going to go home soon, in a week, they said, and do outpatient. So I have to come back a few times a week, then once they’re happy with my progress, I’m done. Hopefully forever.”

“And then you’ll come back to school?” Mia asked.

Erik hesitated, then nodded. The administration strongly  _suspected_  he acquired the pills from another student, but he refused to tell them anything about it. And technically, since they couldn’t prove the pills were ever received or taken on school grounds, he hadn’t violated anything in the code of conduct - none of the drugs he’d taken were illegal, after all. They just weren’t his. “Yeah. I should be able to come back for the next round of classes and finish the year.”

“Good,” she said, sounding relieved. He wanted to turn around to actually  _see_  her, but he held himself still and didn’t give in; Mia would  _never_  want to see him again…or, if she did, it would be different. It was always different, after. “I was freaking out, thinking they were going to do something to you and then we’d all have to follow you to public school, because no  _way_  were we going to let you do that alone.”

Erik’s lips twitched in a smile. “Who’s we?”

“Okay, mostly me and Darren Wong,” she admitted. “But we have a plan - we’ll form a music society at whatever high school we wound up at and our ingenuity would look good on college applications. We’d go on  _Oprah_ , we’d be famous. It’s Darren Wong who wants to go on  _Oprah_ , though, that’s all him.”

A pause. Erik was about to ask what was so bad about Oprah, when Mia asked, quietly, “Has Darren Wong seen your face?”

There was a pained squeezing in his chest, but Erik shook his head and managed to say, “No, never.”

“Haven’t you been friends since you were little?”

Fourth grade, Erik clarified. He didn’t tell Mia it was the first year he’d gone back to school since the accident. As far as his friends were concerned, the mask had come  _with_  the accident. They thought it did something for him, something medical, that if Erik took it off something awful would happen. Like the lady with the yellow ribbon around her neck. Not that they thought his face would fall  _off_. For that to happen, he required an actual face. 

“And…he’s  _never_  seen you? Not even accidentally?”

No, Erik shook his head. How would he? Erik didn’t do sleepovers and demurred going on overnights with the orchestra, unless he and his dad got their own hotel room. Otherwise they hung out at school and on the weekends, but Erik didn’t take it off. And Darren never asked to see him - he too was convinced that the mask was doctor-prescribed. Of course he’d asked about it, early on. Erik told him that he was burned in a fire when he was little. That was why he wore the mask. Let people draw their own conclusions. 

But now Mia knew the truth - that he chose to wear it. That he’d be just fine if it was taken off - if it was sitting on his bedside table, an hour away. Curiosity could be tamped down if the consequences were bad enough. But now…now, he didn’t know what to think. What she would do. And that was scary. 

“Is it that bad?” she asked this last part so quietly, he barely heard her. 

“Yeah,” Erik replied hoarsely. “It’s…really bad.”

“Could you…tell me about it?” she asked. “I  _really_  think I could look and it could be okay. I just feel weird now that I came, but I can’t…actually, really see you. I mean, all these people who are here have seen you - ”

“Yeah, and some of them asked to be moved to a different therapy time so they don’t have to,” Erik said, sharply. “Mia, it’s  _disgusting_. Really, really bad. Okay?”

“Okay,” she said, loosing her hold around his waist and backing up. Erik could have kicked himself; he didn’t mean to scare her off. 

“Sorry,” he said, folding his arms over his chest, hunching over - twinge of pain in the shoulder. Damn it. “I’m sorry. It…people are different. After they see. They treat me differently.”

Mia made a little protesting noise. “I’m your  _friend_ ,” she said, a little petulantly. “I mean, I’ve seen  _some_  of it.”

It was true. There were parts of his body the mask didn’t cover. His right ear - what was left of it - and that side of his neck, part of the side of his head. Sometimes he wore t-shirts to school and people could see his arms. They weren’t that bad, though. Nothing was as bad as his face. 

“Yeah, you’ve seen the good stuff,” he said warningly. “The stuff they could basically fix. I don’t  _have_  a face, Mia.”

She snorted, “That can’t be true, you have a  _head_ , you have two eyes, a mouth, a nose - ”

“No, I don’t,” he blurted out before he could stop himself. 

The stunned silence spoke more than any words could. But Mia rallied admirably and said, “Sorry, come again?”

“The surgeon couldn’t save it,” he said, swallowing hard against the acidic burn in the back of his throat. She had seen him throw up before, so that was nothing new. “The…They didn’t have much to…there wasn’t a lot left. To…there just isn’t a lot  _left_. Like, the bone structure is there. But the soft tissue is…gone. Or patched up. Or…”

“You don’t have to say any more,” Mia said, arms around his waist, face pressed against his back. “I’m sorry. I’m being obnoxious. I just…I feel like it’s a trust thing and maybe if you trusted me more or opened up to me… _told_  me what was going on, I could help. I could have helped. More.”

“No, see, that’s the thing,” Erik said, hands going to his hair in frustration. “I don’t want to be…like a project. Or…someone for you to feel bad for - ”

“Oh, Erik, I already feel bad for you,” she said. “But not in a…weird way. Just…it sucks that you have to go through this. And…you shouldn’t go through it alone. And before you say anything, your dad does  _not_  count, he’s just…he’s not a cuddly dad. I feel like he’s not the best person to have around when you feel cruddy.”

Actually, Dad did okay. True, he wasn’t…a naturally cuddly person. But he tried. And Erik let him down. 

“What if I promise not to be weird?” she offered, when Erik didn’t say anything. “Like, I promise I’ll love you the same and everything.”

“You can’t promise that,” Erik sighed. “Like…whatever you think I look like, whatever you’re telling yourself you can handle, it is so much worse.”

“Okay, so, can I be the judge of that?” she asked, losing a little patience. “You don’t  _know_. What I can’t handle. Just…trust me, Erik, okay? I  _promise_  I will still be your friend. Even if I legit can’t handle it and ask you to turn around or say, 'Oh, shit, man, sorry, you’re right, I can’t look at you.’ That is the absolute  _worst_  that will happen. Cross my heart.”

There was a tiny, treacherous piece of his heart that clung on to that promise, even as his head was saying that it couldn’t be true. Everyone preferred he wear the mask. Members of his family were more relaxed around him when he wore the mask. And Mia was just a friend. She’d only known him three years. It would be so easy for her to cut him out of her life. That was worst case scenario.   
  
In the end, he couldn’t say yes. But he didn’t say no, either. 

“I’m not turning around,” he said and her arms sagged around him. “But I won’t move. If you…decide to…look.”

Erik closed his eyes - he couldn’t take it, seeing the look on her face - pity, horror, revulsion, whatever it was. He couldn’t watch her walk away. 

She let him go. Slowly, she walked, steps deliberate. Heavy. Once, when she’d made her way far enough around to get a decent look, she stopped - she was walking around his right side, where the worst of the damage was. Erik swallowed hard, the bile rising in his throat again. He could feel a panic attack tightening his chest, speeding up his heart, despite the regimen of anti-anxiety medication he was on. 

A deep, shuddering breath sounded in front of him. Then, unexpectedly a thump against his chest that had nothing to do with anxiety - Mia headbutted him in her rush to throw her arms around him. Tears soaked through the front of her shirt. Crying again. All because of him. 

“Oh, my God,” she breathed, shakily against his shirt. “You poor guy. Holy shit. I’m sorry, I told you worst case scenario, it didn’t include me being a basket-case. But it’s okay! It’s okay! It’ll be okay. Just give me a minute…”

“It’s okay,” Erik said, a little numb. He opened his eyes and found himself looking at the top of her head. She was here. She was  _hugging_  him. She was a mess - a basket-case - but she was still here. This time, Erik wound up running his hand up and down her back. His heartrate slowed. And slowly, very slowly, Mia peeled herself off him. Glancing up - then away, then up again. Finally, over to the couch. 

“Let’s sit,” she said, taking his hand, dragging him purposefully over. “Let’s sit. And talk.”

“Okay,” Erik said, slightly warily. “Do you want me to - ”

“Nope,” she shook her head and looked at him, swallowing really hard. “You don’t need to do anything. Just sit. For I bring you gossip. Prime gossip. Platinum gossip - and you’re going to want to be sitting for some of it.”

Erik couldn’t help himself - he smiled, despite knowing that, without the mask, it would look more frightening than cheerful. But Mia gamely returned it - a little watery and he saw her wince as the skin on the right side of his face wrinkled and warped with the motion of damaged muscles - but she sat right down next to him. They talked for another two hours, until it got dark and she needed to get home. But she looked at him the entire time. 


	6. A Family Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, Erik's extended family is a lot. There's the divorce, mom's mental illness, plus his issues with opioids and...yeah, it's not a relaxing combination. This chapter could also be subtitled, 'Erik gets punched in the face by puberty and it's embarrassing.'

Erik hadn’t been to Connecticut in over a year. Not since the surgery, not since rehab - honestly, he didn’t want to go at all, only Dad insisted. Which was different. Dad never was one to insist that he put himself out there (actually, Dad thought he put himself out there too much, it took over an hour of convincing to satisfy him that a video of Erik playing the guitar on YouTube wasn’t a horrifying breach of privacy to be rectified). But he did insist that he get his ass in the car and join him for seven hours of leg-crunching misery as they drove to Nona and Papa’s for their sixtieth.

“I’m not any happier about this than you are,” Dad said grimly, hands gripping the steering wheel like he wanted to cut off the car’s supply of oxygen. “But at least your Mom’s family  _likes_  you. They think I’m Edward Rochester.”  
  
Erik didn’t say anything - what was there to say? No amount of logic would convince Nona and Papa that Dad hadn’t done something to irreparably damage Mom’s mental health. He was only amazed that they didn’t blame  _him_  as much as Dad. It wasn’t until the accident that it was determined she did better when she didn’t live alone. 

But they were always nice to him. When he was little, he used to spend every school break at their place, but that changed once he got to high school, on the trimester schedule where they started early and finished late. Now he mostly saw them on their infrequent visits to him or his even rarer visits to see them. And it had been a  _long_  time, this time. 

“Is Mom Jane or Bertha?” Erik asked, staring at the innumerable fields of nothing on the side of the highway. “I’m sure she’d rather be Jane, but, you know, Bertha has that pyro thing going on.”

Dad laughed before he could stop himself. “God. Keep those cracks to yourself, buddy.”

“What happened to your sense of humor?” Erik asked, raising an eyebrow under the mask as best he could. Humor was literally the  _only_  thing that kept his dad’s good opinion of him through the mess that was Junior year. 

“I left it back at the house,” Dad told him, loosening his fingers on the steering wheel before he bent the thing out of shape. “Seriously. Nice people, your mom’s family, but they are  _earnest_.”

“Aunt Amy has a sense of humor,” Erik pointed out.

“Yeah, well,” Dad grumbled and said nothing. Aunt Amy was probably the only person in Mom’s family (aside from Mom) who didn’t actually think Dad was the devil incarnate. Which meant she was more likely to criticize him to his face, since she was doing it ‘with love.' 

“Let me just make sure I have the rules down,” Erik said, putting the seat back so he could recline slightly; it promised to be an insanely long trip. “Don’t crack jokes. Don’t mention rehab - do they even know?”

Dad nodded, “Your mom, your aunt and your grandparents do. I don’t know about the rest of them, but you know how gossip travels in that family. They knew Mom and I were separating before I did.”

“But don’t mention it,” Erik clarified and his father gave an affirmative grunt. “And…can I just keep the mask on? Please? Because every time we go over there’s some new boyfriend or wife or kid and it’s…a lot. Even people who  _know_  don’t want to see  _this_  coming out of a bathroom at six in the morning.”

“Well, I’ll spare you that at least,” Dad said. “I got us a room at the Hampton Inn. I need to work on this trip and your grandparents wifi is horrible. I’m sorry I’m just mentioning it, I know when you were little you liked to stay with your cousins -  _you_ > still could, but - ”

Oh, no, Erik assured him. He’d  _love_  to stay in a hotel. Not in the least because of the continental breakfast - he’d been bugging Dad to get an actual waffle maker for the house, but Dad pointed out that neither of them woke up early enough to make  _batter_  for the waffle maker. Which made sense, but Erik was one of those people who thought if he just had the supplies, he’d magically develop the ability to want to do the work. But whatever: at a hotel, the waffles were just there ready to be made and topped with whipped cream and strawberries. 

“I would have brought my laptop if I knew we were going to have actual wifi and not dial-up,” Erik said. But otherwise he was perfectly content; if they weren’t staying at the house, then the mask would be less of an issue. Once upon a time he hadn’t worn it at all on these trips, but that was long ago, when he was actually a little kid. Now, though he was by most definitions a kid, he wasn’t little.   
And that was the first thing that was remarked on when he and Dad pulled up to the house. Nona came out right away, Mom and Aunt Amy hot on her heels as he exited Dad’s car, legs on pins and needles from being immobile since the last rest stop. 

“Oh. My.  _God_!” Aunt Amy exclaimed, stopping short in the driveway. “ _Erik?!_ ”

“I told you,” Mom said striding past her sister to give him a hug. “Hey, baby.”

“Hi, Mama,” he muttered, bending down to give her a kiss on the cheek. Those parts of his face and neck that could still blush turned red-hot as his grandmother and Aunt  _stared_  at him. 

“You did  _not_  prep me!” Aunt Amy continued to shriek. “You said, 'Oh, he got so tall!’ You didn’t tell me he got so  _ripped!_ ”

Yeah, this was why Dad didn’t like Mom’s family - they couldn’t keep anything to themselves. His parents had drive up from Boston to visit, when he got out of the hospital. They were stiff and formal, but nice enough. And certainly didn’t shout, 'Holy God, look at those  _muscles_ ,’ like he was a prize steer or something.  

The t-shirt was a bad idea. He just wanted to be comfortable for the drive down - so he wore an old shirt that was slightly too tight and really worn in jeans. He was going to change for dinner, contemplated changing at the last rest stop, but figured he could wait. He deeply, deeply regretted that decision now.

Erik was  _squirming_. Aunt Amy was still giving him the once-over (more like the thrice-over) and Nona was hugging him, then poking him in the stomach, then  _squeezing_  his arms and he was sending Dad a look that said: HELP. Luckily, Dad was good about those things.

“It’s part of his therapy,” he replied. “Regular exercise and - ”

“I exercise,” Aunt Amy interrupted. “And I don’t look like the Hulk - what are you feeding this kid? Last time I saw him he was a string bean, swear to God!”

“Well, the doctors said lifting weights was good for the shoulder,” Erik shrugged - pain-free, so clearly he was doing something right. “It’s - it’s better than pills.”

Rule Number 2 broken. Aunt Amy’s face kind of fell and she just swallowed really hard, any further commentary stoppered by bringing up the monster under the conversational bed. Mom wrapped an arm around his waist and led him into the house, saying Papa would want to see him. There was a subdued repeat of the scene outside. 

“Well, anyone can tell you’re Gerry’s kid,” he said, looking Erik up and down and shaking his head. He was 6'2 at his last doctor’s appointment and Papa was 5'9 on a good day. All Mom’s family was tiny, she was the tallest of the women at the towering height of 5'6. It was almost consoling in a way: even if he had a totally normal face, he’d still stick out like a sore thumb in any family photos taken at this gathering. Erik was pretty practiced at avoiding the flash of a camera, but they still managed to sneak a few pictures of him in, every few years. “How’s your music coming?”

“Good,” Erik said, relaxing marginally. The school had been very understanding about making up his academic work. He was going to graduate, on time. The guidance office was even optimistic about his college choices. Like, that there would be  _choices_  and he wouldn’t be stuck at whatever school was willing to take him.

 _You could write a pretty heart-rending essay, if you wanted_ , they told him. But Erik wasn’t going to exploit his situation. To be fair, he hardly saw what there was to exploit. Why would a college look more favorably on a kid who was missing half his face than one who wasn’t? How was a pill problem supposed to make him seem like an attractive candidate. Nope. He was sticking to music; he’d send in demo CDs. They could judge him on that. 

“How many instruments do you play now? Five?” Papa asked, smiling.

Erik shrugged. “More or less - some less well than others, I mean.” 

Piano. Violin. Guitar. Flute. Drums. And he dabbled in a few others, but it was just…not his thing to talk himself up. Erik didn’t like being made much of, not in a pity way 'Oh, you poor  _brave_  boy!’ or in a praise way, 'You’re  _so_  talented!’ Just…let him be, let him do his thing and don’t talk about it too much. 

But then Dad had to launch in with this commentary about how he was going to be on a concept album and everyone started asking where they could get a copy, to which Erik had to patiently explain that it was just to send around and get some interest in the project (and by interest, he meant cash) so that it could be developed. Which was something his grandparents didn’t understand, “But I have the  _Jesus Christ Superstar_  demo record,” Nona insisted. “Why can’t I get yours?”

“They’re not going to sell it, Mama,” Mom jumped in. “There aren’t going to be a lot of copies, right, baby? Just a few for the backers and the composer and the librettist. What’s the show?”

  
“It’s a musical version of this old German play,” Erik said, then named the composer - of whom, Aunt Amy was apparently a fan.

“I love him!” Aunt Amy exclaimed. “I haven’t heard from him in a while, has he just been writing musicals?”

Again, more explaining - Erik hadn’t met him  _personally_. He’d just sent away to performing arts high school to hear actual kids singing the songs - that was one of the ideas for the show, that rather than having people in their 20s pretending to be teenagers, they’d hire actual teenagers for the roles. But the effect wasn’t the same if a guy pushing 40 was singing all the parts. Erik was lucky enough to be chosen for the album, so he got a small stipend. 

“I honestly didn’t think he’d pick me,” Erik shrugged. “Since I’m a baritone. I don’t have the most 'teen’ voice in the universe.”

“Could you sing for us?” Mom asked knowing - absolutely knowing - that he wouldn’t say no to her. “Just quick, before anyone else gets here.”

And then everyone was insisting and saying that he  _must_  play and grabbing his arms and dragging him toward the piano in the nice living room.

“Okay, okay,” Erik said as he sat down to play. “Uh…but it’s a  _really_  depressing song. Just to warn you. The guy is singing at his best friend’s funeral - and his best friend killed himself.”

Silence. Long, painful silence. Especially jarring in this house.

“Well, you’ve had a long ride,” Nona said finally. “Maybe later. You want to change for dinner? Or were you just going to wear that old shirt?”

“I think he should,” Aunt Amy said grinning wickedly. “Those biceps are fancy enough, the girls won’t be able to keep their eyes off him - or some of the boys too, I bet.”

Papa groaned and shook his head while Erik took the chance to go out to the car and get his stuff. 

God.  _God_. Yeah, this was why. This was why he just wished people wouldn’t make a big deal out of…anything. Just let him do his thing. 

And there was Dad. Jogging out after him. Right, how was he supposed to get his nice clothes out of his suitcase if he didn’t have the car keys.

“You forgot something,” he said, tossing the keys at Erik, which he caught deftly. “Is…everything okay?”

“Yeah, fine,” Erik said automatically. Rummaging through his stuff was a welcome distraction - the pants and shirt survived the trip mostly intact. “I just don’t know what to say. Like…what’s going to freak people out. The face is one thing, that’s…something I’m used to. But…I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Dad said, coming around the side of the car and squeezing his left shoulder. “It’s not your fault. They just don’t want to upset you.”

Erik grabbed the clothes and looked his father in the eye - easier now that he was gaining on him in height. “Well, I don’t want to upset them. But it’s too late, I guess. I’m….really glad you got the hotel room. Thanks.”

“I need to work,” Dad said lightly. “And I know how much you like waffles.”

“I do like waffles,” Erik agreed as he went inside to change. No one met him at the door, but he did hear his Mom, faintly. He didn’t stop to listen to what she was saying.

In the bathroom he shucked off the t-shirt and got dressed quickly. He didn’t look at himself too closely, most days, but just  _maybe_ </i> if he didn’t have the scars and the network of grafts, he might be able to admit to himself that his body was decent-ish. The weight training and exercise had bulked him up - he’d gotten taller, gained weight…but that was why he’d needed the stupid shoulder surgery in the first place. Short, skinny Erik hadn’t needed surgery. Short, skinny Erik hadn’t gotten hooked on pills. Ultimately, not something he could feel good about. 

And then there was the face. Erik took the mask off to run a wet comb through his hair, which was matted down in the back from the nap he’d taken in the car on the way down. It was never going to look good or normal or bearable for most people. Erik was used to it, by now. He remembered when he was younger sometimes he’d…forget and be taken by surprise by what he saw in the glass. No more. 

When he took the mask off he expected what he got - a jagged hairline of uneven skin stretched over an eyebrowless forehead ridge - built up with scarring which made his eyes look hollow when his eyes were closed. The right side was really bad, the scarring stretched down his neck, over his ear and his right cheek was basically gone, just the bone and the skin, pulled tight. Like a mottled skeleton. 

And the nose. That was the worst because they hadn’t been able to do anything to save it, the whole thing had to be taken off. They’d met with a cosmetic surgeon about a year ago, but the scarring was so intense there was nothing for any new flesh to adhere to. Erik hadn’t liked the idea of a prosthesis - why pretend? He wasn’t more comfortable with how the rest of his face looked, covering up that gaping hole would just make him look more strange, not less. And it wouldn’t cut down on sinus infections more effectively than the mask already did. He replaced the mask with a grimace. 

Yeah. The hotel was the best. It had been a  _long_  time since most of the Mantovas had been in the same room with him and time softened most memories - he knew that from experience. Better for them not be reminded of what he looked like; he was sure they all tried their best to forget. 

Mom was waiting for him when he got out of the bathroom. She closed a hand around his wrist and dragged him into her bedroom. Patting the bed next to her, she bade him sit.

“I told Auntie to lay off,” she said, reaching up to fix his hair, tucking a few strands behind his intact left ear. “I told her she was being creepy, lusting after my kid.”

Erik shuddered, “Why would you say that? Why would you say 'lusting’? Because if it wasn’t creepy before, it is creepy as hell now.”

Mom smiled at him, lopsided and cute, like she couldn’t  _imagine_  where he got off calling her creepy. Her hand traveled down his back to rub slightly over the raised, bumpy place under his shirt where they’d cut into the shoulder. “How are you feeling? Really?”

“Fine,” Erik said. “It’s way better now than it was. Since, you know, I started at-home PT. I’ve only ever needed Tylenol if I sleep on it weird.”

The smile was genuine now and she gave him a hug, which Erik returned. 

“Good. That’s  _so_  good. I’m glad you’re feeling better, sweetie, really. And you look good - not in a creepy way. But very healthy. Way better than a few months ago.”

“Well, I hope so,” Erik said with an ironic smile. “Since I was all strung-out a few months ago.”

Mom blinked - instant tears. It was incredible how she could go from zero to upset in a heartbeat. “I’m sorry, baby, I feel like this is…something you got from me and I just - ”

Erik shook his head and wrapped an arm loosely around her shoulders, resting his cheek on the top of her head. “Nope. It’s a me-thing, not a you-thing. You’re…I think you’re mindreading. Therapist Dave would say you’re mindreading. Or, like, DNA reading. Whatever. But…it’s just something that happened. And I need to make sure it doesn’t happen again. Even if part of that is Aunt Amy being a weirdo.”

Mom laughed and wiped her eyes, “Aunt Amy is going to be a weirdo no matter what, hon. That can’t be helped. I don’t know, I just wish…I just wish you didn’t have to go through so much stuff. That I didn’t put so much stuff on you. I mean, let’s be honest - the best thing about you that I gave you is red hair.”

“Well, that’s pretty great,” Erik acknowledged and she laughed again. Rule Number One broken, but with Mom it was probably okay. 

She tapped the side of the mask very lightly. “Dad said you wanted to keep it on around the house, but…could you just take it off for a minute, just for me? I like to see you. You know that.” 

 _I do know that. That’s actually a really good reminder for me that you’re Actually Crazy_. 

Nasty, nasty thoughts. Swallow them back. Push them away. Don’t upset Mom.

That was the real Rule Number One: DON’T UPSET MOM. And sneaking another kid’s pills, left over from their wisdom teeth surgery, was the last thing he’d done to REALLY UPSET MOM. 

It was just…he figured most parents would prefer a kid who was a pill popper to a kid who had basically no real face to speak of. At least one  _looked_  normal. 

But his mom was not most parents. As Erik reminded himself frequently. 

The mask came off and she immediately leaned up to give him a kiss on the cheek. Erik smiled slightly and lowered his eyes. He  _hated_  being looked at. The reason was he was almost only ever looked at by people at the doctor’s, in rehab, in some kind of environment where he was going to be poked and prodded and sliced. He didn’t even take the mask off at home, much. Why bother? Dad didn’t insist on wanting to see him without it, he let Erik do whatever made him most comfortable. And he was most comfortable wearing the mask. 

“No pain?” Mom asked, eyes raking over him easily, not a wince or a gag reflex to be repressed. “No worry about splitting?”

Erik shook his head and told her what the doctors said. That his face was as healed and whole as it could be and they weren’t worried about it anymore. They were probably the only ones. 

“And everything else is coming along alright?” she asked, scrutinizing him carefully now, the broad set of his shoulders, the muscles of his arms, back, stomach, like she had x-ray vision (which, hey, even crazy moms had, right?) “No…concerns about you know,  _changes_  and - ”

“Don’t say it,” Erik said warningly.

“Puberty?”

“Uggggh, why?” he groaned. His face fell into his hands and he hunched over as though he was in physical pain. The kind of pain no Vicodin could fix. “It’s just a terrible word. But…no. It’s just the shoulder. Everything else is…keeping up. Can we not talk about this? Like, ever?”

“Hey, I changed your diapers, sweetie,” she said, ruffling his hair fondly. “I’ve seen everything there is to see - ”

“Lalalalalalalalala,” he said, plugging his ears, even the half-melted right one. Because this was not fair. First lusted after by his aunt, then sent into quivering embarrassment by his mother. Every seventeen-year-old’s nightmare.  

Erik felt his mother get up from the bed and wrap her hands around his wrists, tugging him upright. “Come on. We’re meeting everyone at the restaurant. Move that adorable behind of yours.”

The mask went on to cover his extra-red face.  

“Uncle Guy is going to want to arm-wrestle you,” she commented as they left the room. “So be prepared.”

“I’m not,” Erik sighed. “I’m so not. 

_Oh my God!_

_Holy shit!_

_Damn, son, you have a license for those guns?_

That was Uncle Guy. Who did not, in fact, ask to arm-wrestle, but only because they were seated  _far_  away from each other. Erik was sitting between his parents and across from his cousins Maya and Kayla and Kayla’s boyfriend Colin.

"You play football?” Colin asked.  

“No,” Erik replied, staring at his salad, which he was trying to slice into bite-sized pieces so he didn’t get any on his mask.  

“Soccer?”

“No.”

“Basketball?”

“My school doesn’t have a wide variety of sports teams,” Erik said, hoping that would shut him up, but no such luck.

“Oh yeah,” Colin nodded, eyes practically popping out of his head. “Kay told me you were in…what, the training school?”

“Oh, my God!” Kayla shouted, dropping her fork on her plate with a clatter. “You weren’t supposed to bring that up!”

“Why would you tell him?” Kayla’s mom, Tina said, whipping around and glaring daggers. “It’s a family matter, I told you! Just for the family to know.”

“He wasn’t at the training school!” Nona interjected, five seats down. “He just had to go to the hospital! It was only pills, half of the ladies at the church are taking something or other, to sleep to wake up. It’s not a big deal.”

One disadvantage to his size was that Erik was no longer capable of folding himself small enough to slide under the table at restaurants and wait it out among the legs until it was time to go. 

“Pills?” Colin said, scrunching his brow. “I thought meth or something - like a lab explosion. Which is why your face is fucked up.”

Only half the table heard him, thank God. Most of them loudly attempted to change the subject while a few gamely explained that Erik was burned in a fire - an accident, an accident - when he was little. 

“Your boyfriend is a fucking 'tard, Kay,” Maya mumbled, pushing her salad around, dressing dripping over the sides of the bowl and soaking into the tablecloth.

“Maya!” Aunt Tina hushed, though whether she was more horrified by the swear or the slur was impossible to say. “You don’t  _say_  that word!”

“I just did, Mom.” Maya was the surliest twelve-year-old Erik had ever met. “Erik goes to a fancy-ass school for genius people, Colin. I’m not surprised you don’t get the concept.”

Kayla threw her napkin down over her plate. “Shut the hell up, Maya!”

“Make me!” Maya countered, throwing her knife with such force that it  _broke_  the plate. A few shards of glass landed in Erik’s newly bite-sized lettuce. The waiter came running over when he heard the sound, glaring at Erik as he asked, “Is there a problem?”

“No,” Aunt Tina said, much too quickly. “My daughter dropped her cutlery. Can she have a new dish, please? And one for my nephew.”

The waiter took Maya  _and_  Erik’s plates and when he brought new salads, Erik’s cutlery was returned with the conspicuous absence of a knife. No matter, he wasn’t hungry. It was such a pain in the ass to eat out and he caught Dad’s eye, clearly communicating,  _You were the one who wanted to come._  
  
Dad looked at least a tiny bit guilty; he passed Erik his own knife anyway, and he went gloomily back to cutting his salad before the waiter appeared with soup.  

“No thanks,” Erik said when he tried to put the bowl down in front of him. “I’m good.”

Soup plus white leather equaled stains. Like any other piece of medical equipment, the mask was expensive and it couldn’t be dry cleaned. The waiter didn’t listen and plopped it down in front of him anyway. Erik made the best of it and speared a meatball with his fork. Across the table, Kayla’s boyfriend was staring at him in that fascinated way that Erik was very familiar with - wanting to just snatch the mask off, like a band-aid, running a million possibilities for what he could look like through his mind.

It occurred to him that getting a t-shirt made wouldn’t be a bad idea. 'I WEAR THIS MASK FOR A REASON’ on the front and on the back 'YOU DON’T WANT TO KNOW THE REASON.’

“So, you don’t take that off…ever?” Colin asked. “Like, to sleep?”

“This is getting kind of personal…” Dad said, but Colin ignored him.

“So, how bad is it?” he asked, slurping down his meal with gusto. “Like, would I throw up if I saw you?”

Aunt Tina threw her hands up, apparently beyond words. Maya rolled her eyes and Kayla might have attempted to get Colin’s attention under the table, but wound up kicking Erik in the ankle instead. He maneuvered his feet under his chair, taking up as little space as possible.  

“I don’t know,” Erik said coolly. “But I don’t really want to find out, do you?”

He was trying to keep calm, trying to keep cool. It never helped if he got upset; no matter what happened, he’d be the person in trouble. No matter how other people reacted to him, how it ended, he started it. Always he was perceived as starting it, for the mere fact of existing in the world. Taking up space better reserved for someone whose appearance didn’t invite commentary.

“Aunt Amy told me you got kicked out of a restaurant once,” Kayla said, her tone slightly challenging. Defending her new boyfriend seemed to be her goal for the night, even at the expense of a quiet family dinner. “Because the other patrons complained.”

That was horrifically embarrassing. It happened ten years ago - his grandparents; fiftieth. It was a much smaller gathering, just Erik, his grandparents, mother, and aunt. It was his first visit to his mom’s family since the accident. They thought they could take him out without incident. They were wrong. Aunt Amy was nice, tried to convince him that she wasn’t feeling well and that was why they left. He appreciated her thoughtfulness and played along, but that was the best he could do. He caught the stares, heard the whispers - saw a woman forcibly lift her child up and hide their face in her shoulder so they wouldn’t have to look.

“Yep,” Erik nodded. “I remember.”

“Wow,” Colin breathed. “That sucks. I mean, for you and them. I can’t even imagine - ”

“So don’t,” Erik said shortly, pushing himself away from the table. “Excuse me.”  
He picked his way through the tables, hearing the muttered, 'What’s wrongs?’ as he inched his way through the door, down the far end of the table. The waiter looked relieved to be rid of him. The mask was off-putting, he knew, but he was sorely tempted to take it off. Just for a second. Just to give the guy a glimpse of something so much worse.

“Someone should probably follow him,” Kayla said, the sound of her raised voice carrying through the restaurant. “What if he’s going to do drugs again?”

Erik kept going. Out the doors, beyond the benches where families were waiting for their dinners. Everyone was staring at him. And the thing that really stung was knowing this was going to go down in family history as 'The Time Erik Ruined Nona and Papa’s Anniversary.’

“You want to go?" 

Dad. No matter what, Dad always took his side. But that was hardly better, in his mind it would be remembered as 'That Time Erik Got Picked on By Bella’s Horrible Family.’ Not great. Either way, not great and either way, he was responsible.

"I’d feel like a dick,” Erik said, staring at the raked gravel around the sidewalk. “I’ll just…hang out here, run back in to watch them get a cake. Then we can go.”

Heedless of the damage he was doing to his dress pants, Erik sat down on the patch of grass in this fake-garden thing on the side of the building. After a beat, Dad sat down next to him. 

“I don’t know why Kayla was allowed to take her boyfriend,” Dad grumbled. “It’s supposed to be a family dinner.”

“Well, they probably know him better than they know me,” Erik shot back, frustration rising to the surface now that it was just them.  

Dad looked at him, then sighed. “I know I gripe a lot about your mom’s family, but…they do love you. And they want to see you. So…I should make more of an effort to get you down here - ”

“No,” Erik sighed, picking up strands of grass and letting them fall. “I mean, what’s the point? I’ll be eighteen this year and then it’s my responsibility to visit and…I don’t think I will. Not more than we already do. I just want to come down here and see Mom. It’s just that seeing Mom means seeing everybody and it can be overwhelming.”

“You’re preaching to the choir there, buddy,” Dad smiled. “But…you did a good job. Not losing your cool. Even though that kid was an asshole.”

Erik grinned, lifting his head. “Such an asshole, right?”

“If I were your age, I would have punched him,” Dad informed him flatly.

“Well, I’m a lover, not a - ”

“Who wants burgers?”

Mom was standing over them, dangling car keys from her fingers - Dad’s car keys. 

“You left these at the table, Gerry,” she said, as his father took them back. “Come on - I don’t know why we need to get Italian every time we’ve got a family thing, I’m over it. I want a burger. Let’s go.”

“Won’t your parents - ”

“I might have caused a scene,” Mom admitted, holding out her hands to haul the two of them to their feet. She wiggled her slender fingers. “I might have told Kayla that Colin was a fucking asshole. I might have told Tina that the next time one of her girls wanted to bring a boyfriend to dinner, he had to pass an IQ test first. And I might have dumped my wine in his lap. And called Kayla a bitch. Maya said I was her hero.”

Erik tried  _really_  hard to keep himself from laughing and failed miserably. Dad just stared at Mom with his mouth agape.

“Bella - ”

“So, come on!” she said brightly, bending over and grabbing their wrists, giving a tug. “Let’s go! Before that dickhead waiter comes after me!”

Father and son let her think she was dragging them to their feet on her strength alone. “Thanks, Mom,” Erik muttered.

Mom gave him a big squeeze around the middle. “Anytime, baby. Anytime.”


	7. Darren Wong: Tragic Heterosexual

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have put a LOT of thought into the character of Erik's Best Friend Darren Wong, who we've never actually seen in the story. Don't worry, they've been furiously emailing each other the entire time.

**Re:Re:RE:Mamma Mia(We’re going right?)**

**DarrenWong**  ([darrenwong87@gmail.com](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=mailto%3Adarrenwong87%40gmail.com&t=OTY5ZDQ3MjcwNTYxMzYyNWU2ODk2ZDQ1ZGYyYWRhOTdkODE1YTdlZCxUbWxhdjh4Yw%3D%3D&b=t%3A6lWqDL5zerEqMdVyEhyndQ&p=http%3A%2F%2Fmadamefaust.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F176232266217%2Fthis-is-pure-self-indulgence-but-bear-with-me-i&m=1))

I want to quit my job. Can I have your guest room so I don’t have to own up to my failure to my parents?

  
**Erik A. Carriere**  ([eacarriere@gmail.com](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=mailto%3Aeacarriere%40gmail.com&t=YmFjYTA5N2Y0NmIyYTlhYjdjNjE0MGM5ZGVlNzNkYWZkNDVmZTQ5MyxUbWxhdjh4Yw%3D%3D&b=t%3A6lWqDL5zerEqMdVyEhyndQ&p=http%3A%2F%2Fmadamefaust.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F176232266217%2Fthis-is-pure-self-indulgence-but-bear-with-me-i&m=1))

The guest room is currently occupied. Also, you tell me you want to quit your job every two weeks, how seriously should I be taking this conversation?  
  
**DarrenWong**  
  
THE MOST SERIOUSLY. ARE YOU TRYING TO TELL ME YOU DON’T ALWAYS TAKE ME SERIOUSLY?  
  
**Erik A. Carriere**  
  
Not when you internet-scream at me.  
  
**DarrenWong**  
  
Okay. Internet speaking. Internet whispering, if you’d like. But I am very serious. I want to quit my job. I should have quit last year, but I kept thinking things would get better. They’re still shitty, I’m still fourth chair with no prospects of moving up, making more money, or finding fulfillment. ALL MY FRIENDS ARE NOT HERE.  
  
**Erik A. Carriere**  
  
All your friends are not here either.   
  
**DarrenWong**  
  
Not true. YOU are there. Sorry, I said no more internet-shouting, but it’s how I express sincerity. And I sincerely hate my life out here. Who is even in your guest room anyway? Is your mom in town?  
  
**Erik A. Carriere**  
  
No, but she’s thinking of moving back to the East Coast - (whyyyyyyyy? this is a conversation we need to have, but not right now). Dalir is in the guest room.  
  
**DarrenWong**  
  
We can have it now, email is good for that. Paragraph 1 will be Mom Paragraph. Paragraph 2 will be Me Paragraph.  
  
Paragraph 1: Is that good? Is that bad? I thought she liked the mountains? (Heeeeeeey, see what I did there?)  
  
Paragraph 2: Dalir is still there? I thought he was in Wisconsin. Is that good? Is that bad? IF I CAME HOME I COULD MANAGE YOUR SOBRIETY! YOU COULD PAY ME! OR AT LEAST LET ME LIVE WITH YOU FOR FREE!  
  
**Erik A. Carriere**  
  
Paragraph 1: Okay, you know I think that  _Next to Normal_  is a dishonest portrayal of mental illness so I see what you did, but it does not impress me. But yeah…I don’t know. I don’t think she needs round-the-clock care and it’s expensive (sorry, let me express some sincerity: EXPENSIVE). And she says she wants to be with my grandmother because Nona’s old (not in ill health, just old) and my Aunt Amy is back from finding herself (but has she actually come out of the closet? Nope, not yet), so it’s not like Mom would be on her own, but I just don’t know if this is a good decision for her. Still…it’s her life? I should let her live it?  
  
Paragraph 2: Dalir was in Michigan, not Wisconsin. He’s kind of not managing my sobriety right now. But he is still here. It is…good? Um….you can have the couch, though. If you’re serious about moving home I’ll let you live on my couch. For free!  
  
**DarrenWong**  
  
Paragraph 1: Dude. This is complicated. Like…gaaaaaaaaah. Because you’ll see her more (without going on those devil flying machines you hate so much), so yay! But will you have to be on-call? Because that’s not cool. You’ve got your own stuff going on, you can’t be expected to drop everything and run to Connecticut every time she dips.  
  
Paragraph 2: If he’s not managing, what’s he doing there? Is he looking for a new job and just hanging with you in the meantime? I don’t have to quit right NOW I can wait until the room is free…nope, I was typing it and I knew it was a lie. I’ll take the couch, your couch is amazing anyway. I’m serious about quitting, I’m flying home for Mia’s wedding (WHICH YOU ARE GOING TO OH MY GOD YOU’D BE SUCH A SHITTY FRIEND IF YOU SKIPPED IT), so why not just fly home? I can store my stuff. And my parents never need to know.   
  
**Erik A. Carriere**  
  
Paragraph 1: Yeah, I can. Because I wrecked her brain. Well, Fetus!Erik did, but I must own up to the sins of my past. I don’t know. The way she was talking about it to me, she made it sound like it would be all benefit, no drawbacks…but you never know. The thing is, if she gives up her room, comes home and decides she hates it, it’s a three to five year wait to get back in. So there’s that.  
   
Paragraph 2: We’re dating. You’re welcome to the couch whenever you want it. I’m on the fence about Mia’s wedding (SHE IS FINE WITH ME NOT GOING SHE TOLD ME).  
  
**DarrenWong**  
  
Paragraph 1: Okay, when you start talking about Fetus Erik, I know you need to see your therapist. Normal people don’t hold themselves accountable for things they did in utero. Like, my mom’s thighs, which she claims didn’t touch until she was pregnant with me? She tries to guilt, but I don’t accept the guilt. DON’T ACCEPT THE GUILT, ERIK.  
  
Paragraph 2: THIS IS OFFICIALLY THE WTF ERIK?! PARAGRAPH BECAUSE WHAT THE FUCK? You’re DATING? WHEN? HOW? SEND ME A PICTURE OF HIS FACE!  
  
Paragraph 3: (This is still about me though). I cannot deal anymore with being out here, all alone, working a million hours a week and being miserable. Like, fuck it. I don’t care if it’s the London Phil, I want to be in the New York Symphony, so I should just focus on THAT, right? Like, set a goal and see it through. And live on your couch while doing it. (THIS PARAGRAPH IS NOW ALSO PARTIALLY FOR MIA BECAUSE SHE ALSO TOLD ME SHE’S FINE WITH YOU NOT GOING BUT SHE DEFINITELY IS NOT SHE WANTS YOU TO COME.)

 **Erik A. Carriere**  
  
Paragraph 1: I’m closing out this paragraph.  
  
Paragraph 2: Yeah…it just kind of happened.  
  
Paragraph 3: I know, I know, that sucks. You’re welcome to stay here.

 **DarrenWong**  
  
Paragraph 1: Talk. To. Your. Therapist. (I literally clapped after every word when I typed it so you know I’m serious.)  
  
Paragraph 2: NO IT DID NOT. YOU DO NOT JUST START DATING SOMEONE. And I’m not talking like ‘you’ = ‘humanity in general,’ I’m talking ‘you’ = Erik who has only had one boyfriend (WHO I WILL BEAT UP IF I EVER SEE BUT YOU KNOW THAT). Is he nice? You said he was nice, but is he still nice? Just tell me he’s nice. And not a pretentious toolbox with a Van Gogh fetish, ‘WAHWAHWAHONLYMENTALLYILLPEOPLECANARTWAHWAHWAH’ FUCK YOU DUDE. FUCK YOU (Fuck you Alexis, not fuck you Erik.)

Paragraph 3: Okay, but will it kill your mojo if I’m there on your couch? I don’t want to kill your mojo.

 **Erik A. Carriere**  
  
Paragraph 1 No Longer Exists  
  
Paragraph 2: Gaaaaaah. (I literally just made that noise, so you know I’m not up for talking about this.) I don’t know. I genuinely don’t know. I mean, he’s still incredibly nice. But that seems…like a trick? Like I’m somehow mistaken? Too good to be true?

Paragraph 3: I have no mojo, therefore it cannot be killed. Sleep on the couch. I’ll even ask Dalir if it makes you feel better, but we’ve only been on…one actual date and have spewed some feelings. It’s not like we’re married.

**DarrenWong**

Paragraph 1 Still Exists And Can Be Reopened Whenever You Want

Paragraph 2: Too good how? Like…*eyebrow wiggle* good? Or like, ‘I like him and he’s nice to me’ which is not actually too good to be true, it’s how normal dating is (I’ve been told), not Bad Dating with Terrible Boyfriend. Sorry, I shouldn’t talk about Terrible Boyfriend when we’re talking about New Boyfriend. New Boyfriend Dalir. AHA I FOUND HIM ON FACEBOOK! I’M LOOKING AT ALL HIS OLD PROFILE PICTURES. I AM SENDING HIM A FRIEND REQUEST EVEN AS I TYPE.

Paragraph 3: Have you told him that I am actually your soulmate and that we WOULD be married if I wasn’t a Tragic Heterosexual?

**Erik A. Carriere**

Paragraph 1 I Appreciate The Sentiment But Really Stop

Paragraph 2: Yes, kind of. I have no idea if his is a normal level of goodness, if he’s extraordinary, or if I’m lying to myself about how nice he is because I have the world’s worst taste in people (obviously not counting you.)

Paragraph 3: I haven’t used those words, no. I can? If you want?

 **DarrenWong**  
  
Paragraph 1 OK  
  
Paragraph 2: Well, now I’m definitely moving in! I’ll have a little scorecard ‘The Darren Wong Scale of Goodness And Excellent Boyfriend Qualities’ If he scores below an 8, he’s not good enough for you.

Paragraph 3: You must use those exact words in that exact order. OH SPEAKING OF WEDDINGS, ARE YOU GOING TO BE MY PLUS ONE AT MIA’S? I’m also cool with being your third wheel if Dalir is your plus one! (THIS IS ME BEING A GOOD AND ENCOURAGING FRIEND. SUCH BEHAVIOR WILL DISCONTINUE IF HE DOES NOT SCORE WELL ON THE SCALE.)

 **Erik A. Carriere**  
  
Paragraph 2: 8 out of what?  
  
Paragraph 3: Got it. I don’t know. I don’t want to make it weird. If I go and you’re  my plus one and you go and I’m your plus one, does that mean we get two dinners?

 **DarrenWong**  
  
Paragraph 1  
  
Paragraph 2: 8 out of 10! You will have nothing less than a B- in a boyfriend. Darren Wong has spoken.  
  
Paragraph 3: There’s literally nothing wrong with that? I don’t see the problem? And since you don’t eat in public, I get FOUR dinners! Or I could take tupperware, like Ahma at a buffet. See how much I love you? I’m willing to turn into Ahma for you. Next time I see you I’m going to stick an entire comb in my mouth and use it to neaten up your hair.

**Erik A. Carriere**  
  


Paragraph 2: B-? I’ll take it. (He’s an A though.)  
  
Paragraph 3: Will you also make me dumplings? Because I’m willing to let you spit-clean my hair if I also get dumplings.


	8. Independence Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one was a prompt fill for Tumblr - Erik's not the only guy whose been through stuff in this story, Dalir has some PTSD from getting shot.

On June 30th ‘It’ started. 

“Gotta love America,” Christine grumbled, wedging herself in between Dalir and Erik on the couch for their weekly Top Model binges. “Only in this country do we get the chance to play the fun game, Is It Fireworks Or Is It Gunshots?”

“Because in other countries it’s definitely fireworks,” Erik replied.

“Or gunshots,” Dalir muttered darkly. He attributed his slightly sour mood to feeling forced, for the sake of Christine and Erik’s patched-up friendship, to subject himself to these TV nights where Christine took advantage of Erik’s Prime subscription to re-watch early-2000s Tyra Banks yell at college-age girls. It definitely wasn’t the fireworks.

He  _liked_  Christine, really. She was a sweet kid and, more to the point, she was one of the few people in the world Erik honestly  _relaxed_  around. It was kind of amazing to see the transformation between Relaxed Erik with Trusted Friends and Super Tense Erik Around Strangers/Acquaintances/His Dad. 

The best part was The Laugh. Sure, Dalir had experienced laughter from Erik even back when he was working as his sober companion, but he hadn’t heard The Laugh - the tears-in-the-eyes-throw-your-head-back-clutch-your-sides-deep-belly-laugh - until the first time Dalir met Erik’s best friend from elementary school Darren Wong. It was a revelation. It was, in Dalir’s opinion, absolutely the best sound in the world. Yeah, even better than Erik’s singing. 

Christine could prompt The Laugh. And so Dalir was happy to watch episode after episode of tears and fighting over telephones and long-distance arguments with boyfriends (as well as Tyra Banks’s increased psychosis from season to season), if he could be guaranteed to hear The Laugh every night. 

They got through five episodes, half a tray of brownies, and a six-pack of beer before Christine went home. It was late, but not too late - the one little wrinkle in the newly reconciled friendship was the fact that Christine hadn’t stayed overnight in the apartment, even though the guest room was officially back to being a guest room, now that Dalir had migrated his things (and himself) permanently into Erik’s room. 

“Thanks,” Erik said, after he saw Christine out and locked the door behind her.

“For what?” Dalir asked, looking up from the kitchen island, confused. “For recycling?”

Erik rolled his eyes and walked over, “For hanging out. I know you hate the show.”

“I do,” Dalir confirmed, tilting his head back and quirking his lips. “So much. But I love you, so…”

Erik’s shoulders rolled forward and he ducked his head in an endearing ‘aw shucks,’ maneuver that was pretty standard for declarations of affection (well, not the first one, but most subsequent ones). “I love you too,” he said and went in for a kiss - only to pull away when something that sounded like a cannon went off down the block.

“I hope they don’t do that all night,” he muttered. 

But they did. Well past midnight Dalir could still hear the cracks and pops, but Erik had already drifted off and, once the A/C kicked it and sort of drowned the noise out, so did he. 

_There were more kids than they’d anticipated - closer to a thousand than the five-hundred they’d been sent to contain. It was loud, chaotic, already a few people had thrown bottles, smashing them against police cars. No one was hurt - yet._

_BOOM._

_BOOM._

_BOOM._

_Something hit him in the back and he stumbled forward, onto his knees._

_BOOM.  
_

_BOOM._

_BOOM._

_Were they throwing bricks? Rocks? Warm, wet liquid started seeping into Dalir’s shirt. Another bottle? Had someone thrown another bottle and it smashed open on his shoulder?_

_Fingers. He couldn’t move his fingers. When he tried there was numbness and then searing pain -_

“Dalir!” Dalir!”

“Fuck!” with a snarl he rolled away - would have rolled right off the bed, had a strong arm not grabbed him around the middle and hauled him back. A light switched on. Dalir’s arm was throbbing. 

Erik was sitting on the opposite side of the bed from him. The top of his face was more or less immobile, but Dalir recognized the concerned look in his eyes. Erik wet his lips and spoke nervously, rambling.

“Hey, I didn’t want to wake you up like that, but…I guess you were having a really bad dream? So I knocked on the bed over your head and that just kind of made it worse and you didn’t wake up when I called your name, so…I’m sorry, are you okay?”

“What?” Dalir asked, blearily. His t-shirt was sticking to his back with sweat. The chilly blast from the A/C made him shiver. Erik. Erik’s room. But were the kids okay? Who’d thrown the rock?

“I’m sorry,” Erik repeated, running a hand nervously through his hair. “Should I just have let you sleep? Let you come out of it on your own?”

“Were the students okay?” Dalir asked, slowly, still half-sleeping. “Who pulled me out of there?”

“Out of where?” Erik asked blankly.

Dalir touched his shoulder with trembling hands. “Did I get shot?”

“What?” Erik asked, voice rising in concern. “No! I mean, yes! I mean…”

He trailed off, at a loss. Dalir’s fingers came back clean. His shoulder still hurt like hell though. Did it? Or didn’t it? And he couldn’t move his fingers.

Erik got up, holding a hand out. “Come with me? Okay? Come here? Please?”

Dalir got up, stumbling a little, letting Erik take his good hand on his good arm and lead him out of the bedroom. Had Dalir been a little more with it, he would have been shocked to see Erik approach a living room window without his mask on, even in the middle of the night. 

BOOM.

BOOM.

BOOM.

The window was thrown open. Hot, humid air hit Dalir at once and Erik wrapped an arm around his waist, gesturing with his free hand. 

“It’s fireworks,” he said simply. “Douchebags with fireworks. See? You’re alright. You’re safe now. You’re okay.” 

 _Fireworks_ , Dalir’s numb brain, like his numb arm, tried to make the connection.  _Fireworks. Douchebags with fireworks._

“Do you see?” Erik asked cautiously, tucking Dalir’s head under his chin.

The ache in his shoulder ebbed.

“Fireworks,” Dalir repeated dully. Then, coming back to his senses a bit, added, “Fourth of July isn’t until  _Wednesday_ , you ignorant fucks!”

“Okay,” Erik muttered, closing the window. “That’s enough of that. Are okay? Dalir? Do you…what do you want? Do you want to watch TV? Go back to bed?”

He wanted Erik to stop asking so many questions, but he was with it enough now to realize snapping wasn’t going to help. The details of the dream were fading rapidly, but the memories of the event itself were still sharp. Dalir felt a pang of embarrassment; he thought he was over this. 

“I think I’ll watch TV,” he said, turning away toward the couch. “You can go back to bed.”

Erik did return to the bedroom, but only to grab the comforter. He turned the A/C even higher and that, combined with the noise of the television, drowned out the blasts from outside. At first they started sitting side by side beneath the blanket, but it wasn’t long before Dalir drooped down, using Erik’s chest as a pillow. 

“Sorry,” he yawned, exhausted.

“Don’t be,” Erik replied, turning the volume down, but not so much that they lost the white noise effect. He curled one arm around Dalir’s chest and dropped a kiss onto the top of his head. “Go to sleep.”

“Don’t change it to Top Model,” Dalir muttered. 

Erik chuckled. It wasn’t The Laugh, but it was still nice. “Don’t worry about it. Just go to sleep. I’ve got you.”


	9. Back to School II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even though Gerry is giving his child a complex, he's leaps and bounds ahead of Gerard and for that I applaud him.

Wearing a mask wasn't as comfortable as superheros made it out to be. It didn't hurt, exactly, but it was weird to have fabric pressed up against your face for hours at a time. It was kind of hot and a little itchy. And even though the eyeholes were cut for maximum field of vision, Erik still kind of felt like he was looking at the world from behind a cage.

But wearing a mask was  _so_ much better than not wearing one. Like, take going outside for instance: when Erik went outside wearing a mask, people looked at him funny. But they didn't look grossed out, or scared, or embarrassed to feel grossed out or scared. Kids pointed, but they didn't scream or cry or ask their parents really loudly, 'WHAT HAPPENED TO HIS FACE?!' And the parents didn't go red and shush their kids or say, 'DON'T STARE' like looking at him was a bad thing to do, or (worst of the worst) grunt and say, 'He must have done something bad.' People always didn't say that, usually they stuck with shushing. But sometimes they said that, or things like that, saying that Erik must be a bad kid to have such a bad face and it made him feel hot and cold all at the same time and it was just awful.

No one said anything like that when he was wearing a mask. Except, 'It's a little early for Halloween, isn't it?' (except it was August, so not that early). And if a kid asked their mom or dad, 'WHY IS THAT KID WEARING A MASK?' their parent would just kind of shrug and say, 'I don't know.' It was  _so_ much better.

Mom didn't get it. She hadn't said anything to Erik, but he heard her and Dad fighting on the phone about him - duh, when they fought it was always about him. They _shouldn't_ have been fighting though, because Dad was calling to tell her about the meeting he and Erik were going to at his knew school. Mom wanted Erik to go to regular school for forever and she should have been happy that Dad called her. Everything sounded okay when Erik started listening in, Dad was just telling her about how he got accepted into St. Cecilia's, but they were going to have a visit with the principal before Dad was willing to sign any checks or buy any uniforms. 

Mom asked a question and Dad waited a long time before he answered, "Yeah. I mean, I sent her a photo, but...yeah, he's going to wear it when we check out the school."

Another pause. (Erik knew he probably shouldn't be eavesdropping from the dining room, but if the conversation was _about_ him, didn't he have the right to listen in?)

"That's his decision, if he wants to take it off - no, Bella, I'm not  _pressuring_ him. He was the one who asked  _me_ about getting a mask."

A longer pause this time and if Erik strained his ears he could _just_ about hear Mom's voice all the way from Connecticut. She sounded squeaky, like she got when she was upset about something. His stomach did a little flip; he hated making Mom upset. If she got too upset, she might have to go to the hospital and he didn't want that to happen. 

"Used to - Bella, look," Dad's voice was doing that clipped thing that reminded Erik of a stapler getting punched, like each word hurt getting out. Clack, clack, Clack. "It's not something for them to get  _used to_ \- " Then Dad got _super_ quiet and Erik ducked his head down near the crack under the door to the kitchen; he could see Dad's sneakers, but nothing else. "It's been three years and I'm not 'used to' it. Neither is _he_ come to that. If a mask makes him more comfortable, I'm all for it. Yeah, well, he lives with _me_ , so that's how that goes."

Then Mom got really loud - Erik couldn't hear what she was saying through the phone, but Dad must have pulled the receiver away from his ear because her far-away voice got much closer. And much more upset-sounding. Erik almost burst in, then, to remind Dad that it wasn't healthy for Mom to be too upset and he should just say things to make her happy. But he stayed still, slightly more afraid of getting in trouble for spying on his parents' phone conversation than he was of Mom going to the hospital. 

"It's hard for him, Bella," Dad said, his clip-clip tone getting replaced by a voice that was far angrier. "You don't see the day-to-day - that's _different_ , you know it's different, that's your family. Two-hundred strange kids aren't going to give a shit about his feelings, you know? Honestly, I'm not crazy about this school idea at _all_ , but I'm outvoted. I am being accommodating! I'm _paying_ for it, aren't I? No, I'm not being _mean_ , I'm stating a fact!"

Erik cringed away from the door, swallowing hard, blinking back tears. Dad might not have been trying to be mean, but he sure sounded mean. Erik's stomach started to do flips; he didn't know what was scarier, Dad yelling at Mom, Mom being so angry and sad that she had to go to the hospital, or the prospect of school getting taken away from him. He _really_ wanted to go to school. Or he thought he did. Before the fighting started.

They argued some more, about money, it sounded like, with Dad saying he didn't want anything, he wasn't asking for anything, that he wasn't bitter (which Erik always thought was a flavor and not a feeling, but that just went to show how little he knew about anything), and then he said the very  _worst_ thing he could possibly have said:

"Honestly, this might all not pan out. We might go tomorrow and he might hate it. Or they might not be too excited about letting him in after they see him. I don't know, it's a private school, they do what they want. All I'm saying is I don't think normal kids do a meet-and-greet with the principal before they enroll, you know?"

Erik ran upstairs, tears spilling out of his eyes faster than he could wipe them up. His nose (well, what he had instead of a nose) started running and he darted into the bathroom for tissues, slamming the door behind him. The mask was sitting on the vanity counter and after he cleaned his face up, he tied it on and looked in the mirror. 

His eyes were super-red from crying behind the eyeholes, but he didn't look too bad, he didn't think. Even though it was summertime and hot, he'd wear a long-sleeved shirt to the school tomorrow. Or a sweater or something, so the teachers wouldn't see his arms and decide they didn't want him. He could wear a sweater and long pants every day, even when it was blazing hot if he had to. Even if it was a thousand degrees.

His heart rate started to slow down and he hopped up onto the rim of the bathtub to get a better look at himself. The mask made it look like he had an actual nose and was padded on the inside so his face looked 'symmetrical' which mean that it looked like both sides were shaped the same. His hair was kind of poofy, but it was always kind of poofy. He turned his head to the right; his messed-up ear was still visible and all the marks on his neck and chin, but they weren't  _that_  bad. Not when compared to everything else. 

In addition to trying to look okay, he would also act okay - better than okay. Perfect. He'd be super polite and not ask any questions and not even talk except to say 'please' and 'thank you'.

A knock on the bathroom door almost made him fall off the tub.

"Buddy?" Dad asked in his regular voice, not his mean voice or his stapler voice. "Can we talk? Or are you actually using the bathroom?"

"Just a minute!" Erik yelped, hopping off the tub, running over to flush the toilet to pretend he was just peeing or something and not crying. If Dad knew he was crying, he'd want to know why, and if he knew Erik was listening to him talk to Mom on the phone, he'd be mad and if he was mad, he might not take him to the school, and if he didn't even go to the school, he'd never even get the chance for the principal to decide that he wasn't too weird and ugly and scary to go to school. 

Erik opened the door and looked up at Dad, trying and failing to look nonchalant. Luckily, Dad wasn't really looking at him; he was looking at the mask.

"Oh, you're - " Dad started to say, but he didn't finish his sentence. He got a weird look on his face and Erik couldn't tell if it meant he was in trouble or not. "Um. You excited for checking out your new school tomorrow?"

Was this a test?

"Yeah," Erik said cautiously. "I hope...um. I hope they like me."

"I'm sure they'll like you," Dad said, running a hand over his hair and making it stick up. Dad had brownish hair, but it stuck up like Erik's did. "I just wanted to say...you know, you don't have to wear the mask tomorrow. If you don't want to. You can just...go. I hope you don't think...I want to let you know, it doesn't matter to _me_ if you do or not. You just...do what feels comfortable for you." 

This was  _totally_ a test. 

"Oh, no, I'll wear it," Erik said rapidly. "I'm going to wear the mask and long pants and a long shirt. So that way they can just...so that way I don't bother anyone. It's better. Isn't...don't you think it's better?"

Dad froze. And didn't say anything for  _such_ a long time that Erik's heart started to beat fast again. Didn't Dad think it was better? Didn't Dad notice how people didn't pay him as much attention? Or - worst of the worst thoughts - did Dad think it didn't make a difference? That even with the mask and long clothes, he'd  _still_ be too different and weird and ugly to go to school?

"I think," Dad said slowly. "That whatever makes you feel better is...better. Do you want to wear the mask tomorrow?"

Erik nodded his head rapidly up and down. Dad relaxed slightly and his next sentence came much faster.

"Okay," he said, nodding back. "Then you'll wear the mask. No big deal."

"No big deal," Erik echoed. Erik would have slept in it if he thought it would make a difference, but he didn't; the nose part was hollow inside so he could breathe and he didn't want to roll over onto it and squish it. 

The next day, feeling hot and sticky, but _better_ , Erik and his dad drove the forty-five minute commute to St. Cecilia's Preparatory Academy of the Arts. The principal, Sr. Claudette, met them outside. She was a nun, but she wasn't dressed like the characters from _The Sound of Music_. She was wearing a navy blue skirt and a blouse and had a veil on her head that showed her bangs. She was kind of short and chubby in a way that reminded Erik of his Nona; it made him relax, a little bit, especially when she smiled at him. 

She didn't say anything about the mask; she didn't say anything about how he looked at all, just said she was happy to meet him and asked him if he wanted to look around. Dad tried to speak up for him, but Sr. Claudette barely looked at Dad; all her attention was on Erik, he was the one she talked to. It didn't feel like he had to pass a test or anything; she didn't ask him any hard questions about music even. They just walked around the school, which was actually five buildings: the chapel, the convent where the sisters lived, the lower school, the upper school, and the arts complex. He was going to start in the lower school, she explained, which was where the kids in grades K-5 were; the upper school was for grades 6-8, but everyone used the arts complex. They went into the empty classrooms (she even showed him the Kindergarteners' special little kid bathroom with a tiny toilet that made him laugh out loud too look at - she laughed too). There was a library that smelled like paper and new carpet, and a computer room that smelled like warm plastic. 

But the arts complex was _so_ cool. When Erik read about it in the school's brochure, he assumed it would be like his dad's theatre, just a lot of big empty rooms waiting to be filled with musicians and actors and singers, but otherwise, not very interesting. Not so. The rehearsal rooms had racks of costumes just sitting there, not locked away and only pulled for a specific production. And the props room looked like a crazy grandma's attic with furniture and set pieces lying around everywhere. But the best of all was the music room, which had two upright pianos, and cabinets full of instruments waiting to be played.

"Many of our students rent their instruments from the school," Sr. Claudette informed them. "Most of these are second-hand donations, but we keep them in excellent shape. Your instruments are the violin and piano, right, Erik?"

"Yeah, and I can play the guitar a little too," Erik said, but his eyes lit on a full drum kit sitting in the corner. He _always_ wanted to try the drums, but Dad said nope, that his ears just couldn't take it. And there was an  _accordion_ , like Weird Al had (another forbidden instrument on the grounds that Dad didn't like the sound of it). He'd been working on persuading him to buy him a flute, but flutes were expensive and Dad already bought him a violin. Maybe at this school he could rent one. 

Sr. Claudette smiled at him again, "Well, if you're ever interested, the older students give back to the younger students by tutoring them on their instruments, no cost, if you want to try your hand at something different. We don't believe in locking children in to one instrument or style of performance, especially when they're so young."

"You mean I can stay?" Erik asked excitedly. "I can go to school here? I passed?"

Sr. Claudette's eyes flickered between Erik and his dad; her smile faded slightly. "Of course you may! If you like it here - "

"I do!" Erik said, forgetting his vow to act perfect - part of being polite was not interrupting, but Sr. Claudette didn't seem to mind; her smile came back. "Um. Please."

Dad cleared his throat. "I - ah. Brought my checkbook. For the deposit."

 _Now_ Dad had the principal's full attention. They went back to her office where Erik waited while Dad filled out paperwork and answered a bunch of questions, like if Erik was on any kind of specific medications, if he had any allergies, and if there was anything the school nurse needed to keep in her file on him, besides what they had already discussed. 

"Not...that we haven't discussed," Dad said, looking over at Erik. Erik sat up at attention, worried he had looked bored or something, which might lead the adults to think maybe he didn't like the school as much as they thought. "Um. There's...the _mask_ won't be an issue, will it? For the faculty."

"It shouldn't be," Sr. Claudette replied, folding her hands on her desk. "They've been informed that its medicinal in purpose."

 _It's not_ , Erik thought, but bit his tongue and didn't say. It was just so people didn't have to look at his face. Still, he kept quiet, chancing a glance up at his dad, who was frowning at the nun. Had Dad told her it was medically necessary? That something bad would happen if he took it off (like, something bad happening to him, not to other people)? Was that the only reason why he was allowed to wear it to school?

"And they're going to respect that?" Dad asked. "And the students?"

Sr. Claudette nodded firmly. "Just as they'd be expected to respect another student's eyeglasses, or hearing aids, or crutches. There might be some curiosity, but I can assure you the faculty will be sure any... _interest_ stops at curiosity."

Dad was frowning, but inside Erik was _elated_. Just curiosity? He could handle curiosity. Actually, on those rare occasions when he'd gone out and people had just been _curious_ , it had been okay. 'What happened to your face?' 'I got burned in a fire when I was little.' 'Does it hurt?' 'Not usually.' 'Can you have surgery to fix it?' 'I had a bunch of surgeries already, this is as fixed as it gets.'

Curiosity was totally fine, a-okay, okey-dokey. The screaming and the crying, and the accusations that he must have been a bad boy for something like _that_ to happen to him...that was less okay. But it wouldn't happen anymore. Not if he got to wear the mask.

They left a little bit later, Sr. Claudette shook Dad's hand _and_ Erik's hand, like he was an adult. It made him feel kind of important. She said she'd look forward to seeing him soon. 

Dad was quiet in the car, so Erik didn't say anything either, though he was a little bouncier than usual, a little more wiggly. He was going to school. He'd looked okay, he'd acted perfect. And he could learn the drums and the accordion and maybe use the little recording studios in the arts wing when he was in the upper school. 

Erik was floating on Cloud 9. Dad ordered his uniforms - long-sleeved white polo shirts embroidered with the school crest, and navy-blue pants - no shorts, no t-shirts. He got shiny black school shoes that fitted over his shoe-insert. And Dad took him to the hospital to get a haircut so his hair wasn't as poofy as usual. 

The night before he was supposed to start, Erik stuffed his notebooks, textbooks, and pencil case into his brand-new backpack. He lined it up next to the front door with his violin case, and his new lunchbox (the thermos of which Dad filled with re-heated mac and cheese so that it would still be warm around lunchtime). He got dressed an hour before they had to leave, unable to keep sleeping because he was so excited. He put on his uniform, combed his less-messy hair, brushed his teeth, and tied the mask on. He looked okay. He'd act perfect.

Everything was great - right until Dad pulled into the parking lot. Erik was about to let himself out of the car, when Dad put a hand on his shoulder and looked seriously into his eyes behind the mask.

"If you want to come home, call me right away," he said sternly. "If anyone makes fun of you, says anything mean to you, hits you, tries to take your mask off - I want you to tell me immediately. Okay? And if the teachers don't want to let you leave class, you can tell them you're sick. Erik. Okay? If anything bothers you, if any _one_ bothers you, an adult or a kid, you can call and I'll come pick you up. I'll have my pager on me all day."

 _Hits me?_ Erik thought, alarmed. _Sr. Claudette only said they might ask questions. She didn't say anyone would hit me._

But he didn't want to ask questions or act stupid; not now. Not in front of Dad, who already didn't want to let him go to school at all. If he acted like a little baby - if he let him know he was scared now, Dad probably wouldn't even let him get out of the car.

"Okay," Erik said faintly, backpack feeling heavy on his shoulders, palms sweating on his violin case. "I will."

Dad nodded grimly. "Good. Want me to walk you in? It looks like lots of the parents are doing that anyway."

"Sure," Erik replied, sliding out of the backseat. He  _just_ managed to keep himself from grabbing his dad's hand. No way. That would make him look like a baby. Instead he held on tight to his violin case, watching other kids wearing uniforms like his (some of the girls were wearing skirts) parade into school. Most of them seemed to already know each other. None of them really seemed to notice him. Yet.

And for the first time since Erik thought about going to school, he found himself really wishing he'd just stayed home.


	10. Cootie Shot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The beginnings of a beautiful friendship. Erik and Darren Wong were in fourth grade in 1996, prime X-Men time.

The rumor was he had flesh-eating bacteria _and_ that it was contagious.

Darren Wong didn't believe the rumors. First of all, if the new kid in the mask actually had flesh-eating bacteria, there's no way he'd be able to go to school. He'd probably be in a plastic container like the guy who played Danny from _Grease_ in that tv movie about the boy in the bubble. And if he did have flesh-eating bacteria _and_ he was allowed to go to school anyway, no amount of circle-circle-dot-dot was going to protect anyone from catching it.

Nevertheless, Evie Langford (who played harp) would stop Darren on his way out of the band room, poke him in the arm with her finger, and solemnly intone, "Circle-circle, dot-dot, now you have your cootie shot," every time orchestra broke up. Since Darren sat closest to the new kid in the strings section, she thought he needed extra protection.

There was obviously something _really_ wrong with his face. Darren sat on the new kid's right and even though he wore a mask, it wasn't big enough to cover up his right ear, which was squished and melted-looking into the side of his head. Darren found himself staring at it when they had breaks, or when Mr. Singh was concentrating on another section. It was really gross looking, and he had a million questions he wanted to ask - was the new kind born with a messed-up face? Was he in an accident? Could he hear out of that ear? Did it hurt?

But he kept all his questions inside. No one talked to the new kid. And the new kid didn't talk back. 

Instead, he read. During recess. During lunch. During quiet time, after they finished tests, and in the pick-up line, waiting for their parents to come get them at the end of the day. Sometimes it was books, like _Wayside School_ or _Goosebumps_ , but usually it was comic books.

That was slightly more interesting to Darren than whatever was wrong with the new kid's face. His mom and dad never let him buy comic books, they said they were too expensive, and the library didn't have a great selection to pick from. 

Most recently the new kid was reading a really big one, _X-Men_ , it looked like. _X-Men_ was Darren's favorite cartoon and he'd been _begging_ his parents to let him get just _one_ comic book from the store, but every time it was the same answer: Nope, waste of money, they'd buy him real books, but not comics.

The knowledge that the new kid liked X-Men brought up a whole host of new questions that had nothing to do with his messed-up ear: Do you watch the TV show? Who's your favorite character? If you were a mutant, what powers would you want? 

But Darren didn't ask them. Even if he didn't think the new kid had a dangerous disease, he still didn't talk to anybody. Even when the teachers talked to him, he just kind of nodded or shook his head. 

If it wasn't for the mask it would be easy not to know he was there at all, he was so quiet and small. Darren wasn't close to being the biggest kid in their grade, but the new kid was even shorter than him, and skinny. He had kind of big hands though; Darren noticed when he lifted his violin to play, he had really long fingers. 

The new kid did play really well. The only times he messed up was when he looked at the sheet music too much and forgot to pay attention to Mr. Singh. Lots of kids who'd never played in a group before had that problem, but when the new kid got called out for it or reminded to pay attention, he seemed to shrink even smaller than he already was; like he was a human accordion, his shoulders would hunch and he'd fold himself up. He looked really sad when he did that.

Darren wanted to whisper to him: Hey, it's okay. Lots of kids forget to look at the conductor, you're not the only one. Don't worry.

But he didn't. Just waited until their next break until the new kid pulled out his comic books and Darren could try to see if he could angle his head in such a way that it wasn't obvious he was trying to read along over his shoulder. 

They might have gone along that way forever if Darren hadn't seen what he looked like. He'd been in the bathroom and kind of stalling (ha! which was funny because he was _in_ a stall, he'd have to remember that joke for later) when he heard the door open. Immediately he pulled his feet up so he wasn't noticeable, just in case it was a teacher.

He figured he'd made the right choice when he heard the soft squeak-squeak of new shoes; not an adult, but the person in the bathroom walked down the line and stopped briefly at each stall, so Darren figured it was a classmate who'd been sent to check up on him. He held his breath and prayed that he didn't try the locks. The doors didn't jiggle. Apparently whoever was in the bathroom just wanted to be alone.

Darren heard a kind of loud, weird sounding sniffle and he lowered his feet, peeking through the gap where the stall door didn't quite close. He slammed his hands over his mouth to keep from making noise; it was the new kid and he wasn't wearing his mask.

Well, he didn't have flesh-eating bacteria, but Darren immediately understood why he wore a mask. It wasn't a totally accurate comparison, but the image he could see reflected in the bathroom mirror looked like a cross between the Crypt Keeper and Freddy Krueger. Other kids would totally freak out if they saw him; Darren was more fascinated than scared - especially when he realized the new kid was crying. 

Darren looked away, feeling a sick sensation in his stomach that had nothing to do with what the kid's face looked like. It had to be hard, he figured. Being weird-looking and starting at a new school. A new school where no one talked to you and gave each other cootie shots every time you walked by. 

When he told his mom all about the new boy in the mask after he got home the first day, she'd sternly ordered him, 'You be nice to him, okay?' It hadn't occurred to Darren until now that being nice wasn't the same thing as not being mean. 

Before he could think of what to do, the taps in the sink started running and he heard the new kid make some more loud sniffles as he pulled paper towels off the rack. The water stopped. The squeak-squeak of his shoes sounded fainter as he walked away. And Darren was left all alone in the bathroom. 

That day, in orchestra, when Mr. Singh went over to help the percussion section, the new kid took out his comic book. And this time, Darren asked one of the questions that had been circling in his mind for days.

"Is that _X-Men_?" 

No response. The new kid didn't look up. Maybe he really couldn't hear out of his melty ear. Or maybe he just wasn't used to people talking to him.

Not the most polite thing, but Darren poked him in the arm with his bow. The new kid looked over at him; at least Darren now had his attention.

"Is that _X-Men_?" he asked again, nodding toward the comic book. "I love that show, but my parents won't let me buy the comics."

The new kid nodded. And then he actually spoke, quietly, but Darren could hear him just fine, "Yeah, I like the show too. This is my dad's, he's letting me borrow them."

Darren's eyes widened. "Your _Dad_ reads comics?" he asked incredulously. "Too cool."

The kid's mouth twisted in a sort of smile - he had a funky scar on his chin that wrinkled when he did that, Darren tried not to stare. "He's a nerd. My dad. He's got Star Wars action figures that he won't let me play with. Not because he thinks they're going to be like Beanie Babies and worth a lot of money, but because he doesn't want me to break them."

"Ugh," Darren rolled his eyes. "My sister has Beanie Babies and she won't let me play with them either. Not that I want to play with them, they're _stupid_ , but _still_. They're toys, right?"

The new kid nodded. Then, shyly asked, "Who's your favorite X-Man?"

"Gambit," Darren replied immediately. "He's got those cool eyes and I want to be able to make stuff explode with my hands. Sometimes my violin. Who's yours?"

But the new kid never got the chance to reply. Mr. Singh took up his place at the front of the row and it was back to class. "Erik, Darren Wong," he said, tapping his baton on his music stand to get their attention. "Little less chat, okay?"

Erik, Darren committed to memory. Not 'The New Kid.' Erik. 

When they stood on the sidewalk, waiting for their rides, Darren found out that Erik's favorite X-Man was Beast. 

"Because he's strong and smart and funny," Erik informed him. "Did you know he wasn't always supposed to be blue? My dad has his origin story, he was just black, but I guess blue looks better? Or the ink is cheaper, I don't remember why they changed it, but they did. Um. Can I ask you a question?"

Darren nodded, assuming it was going to be about X-Men.

"How come everyone calls you Darrenwong?" Erik asked. "Like...is that your first name?"

"Oh, no," Darren shook his head, bangs swishing from side-to-side as he did. "A kid Darin Woodhouse used to go to school here in our grade, so it wasn't like they could call me Darren W. And Darren-with-two-rs-and-an-e-n and Darin-with-one-r-and-an-i-n takes too long to say. So I'm Darren Wong and he's Darin Woodhouse, except now he goes to a new school, so I guess he's just Darin."

"And you're still Darren Wong?" Erik asked.

Darren nodded, "Yep. It stuck. It's kind of like a nickname only it's...my entire name - WHOAH!"

A huge, pro-wrestler looking guy was walking _straight for them_. He was one of the biggest people Darren had ever seen up close in his life and he looked  _mean._ Darren tugged on Erik's sleeve, pulling him slightly behind him; Erik was littler than him, after all, and this guy looked like he could _squish_ him. Darren wondered what he was doing there; he was wearing a suit, maybe he was an undercover cop or something, but he was doing a _terrible_ job at not being noticed.

Erik didn't seem the slightest bit worried.

"Oh, that's my dad," he said, waving at the giant guy. "I can ask him if it's okay for me to loan you some comic books, if you want."

Darren didn't hear the generous offer. "That's your  _dad?_ " he asked incredulously.

The big dude - Mr. Erik's Dad - marched right up toward them. "I had to park in East Guam," he said, sounding as mean as he looked. This guy was a nerd? This guy collected comics? "You ready?"

Maybe when Erik talked about his dad, he didn't mean _this_ dad. Maybe he had two dads. A big, scary-looking dad, and a nerdy dad who liked comics.

"Uh, yeah," Erik said, looking between his Dad and Darren nervously. "Um. Dad, this is Darren Wong, would it be okay if I let him borrow your comic books?"

"Who?" Mr. Erik's Dad asked, face looking meaner as he frowned. Darren, hoping that Mr. Erik's Dad didn't Hulk out and get all angry at the prospect of loaning out his comics.

"Darren Wong," Erik said, gesturing toward Darren. Mr. Erik's Dad frowned harder down at him and Darren gulped. "He likes X-Men, but his parents don't let him read comic books."

That wasn't entirely accurate, Darren was allowed to read comics, just not buy them, but he was still speechless in the face of Erik's unexpectedly giant dad.

"Yeah, sure," Mr. Erik's Dad said after a beat. "Just not the ones in the sleeves."

"You won't even let  _me_ read those ones," Erik rolled his eyes and dug around in his backpack. He removed the big paperback he'd been reading all week and held it out to Darren. "Here, it's the Dark Phoenix Saga, I read it already. It's really good and it'll make season three make a lot more sense."

An electronic ding sounded and Mr. Erik's Dad removed a pager from his belt. "Okay, gotta go. Come on, kiddo."

Wordlessly, Darren took the comic book. "Thanks," he managed to squeak.

Erik smiled at him. "You're welcome."

Darren barely managed to smile back, watching as Erik trailed off behind his dad, who held out his left hand and took Erik's backpack. It looked ridiculously tiny hanging off of Mr. Erik's Dad's broad shoulder.

More questions came to mind: Are you adopted? What does your mom look like? Is your dad always so scary? You don't seem to think your dad is scary, even though he _so_ is. Are you just super brave?

He'd have to ask him tomorrow, Darren resolved. Maybe at lunchtime; Erik didn't really sit with anyone, so he figured he wouldn't mind if Darren plopped down across from him. 

Evie Langford dashed out of the bus line and ran over the Darren. "EMERGENCY VACCINATION!" she shouted, holding out her right pointer finger menacingly. "Circle-circle - "

Darren ducked away from her hand. "I'm fine!" he said, holding the book up like a shield. "I don't want one. I'm okay!"

Evie screamed and ran back toward the bus line before Sr. Rita, the bus line monitor, could scold her for taking off. "EW! HIS BOOK! CONTAMINATION!"

"Shut up!" Darren yelled after her, cradling the book to his chest. He hadn't really noticed before, but Evie could be kind of mean. What did she know? And cooties were a little kid thing to worry about anyway. 

The next day, he sat down with Erik at lunch - he finished the whole book in one night, which was a big deal for him, since Darren was kind of a slow reader. And for two-weeks after, Evie made it her sworn mission to decontaminate anyone who Erik _or_ Darren came in contact with.

When Erik's chin scar wrinkled as his mouth screwed up when he saw her doing it, Darren elbowed him in the arm and grinned. "It's fine. Don't worry. It's like she's a Sentinel and we're the X-Men."

Erik shook his head, looking down at his shoes. "It's not okay for her to do it to you too."

It wasn't okay for her (or anyone) to do it to Erik to begin with, but Darren had kind of been part of that, so he didn't say anything. "No, really, it's like we're both mutants now. And that's cool. What kind of power would you want if you could pick?"

"Telekinesis," Erik said at once. "Like the Phoenix."

"See, I'd want to be like Rogue," Darren replied. "I want to be super-strong _and_ fly."

"You can fly with telekinesis," Erik argued as they made their way down the hall. "And lift heavy stuff - but with your _mind_."

"Do you want to read minds too?" Darren asked curiously.

"Oh, no way," Erik shook his head. "Just telekinesis for me, no telepathy, no thank you. It's _way_ too much trouble. I don't want to know what everyone's thinking all the time."

Darren stopped to get a drink of water from the fountain and after he wiped his mouth, Evie pounced on the water fountain, pointer finger extended.

"CONTAMINATED!" she declared, giving the metal side of the water fountain a cootie shot.

Darren stared at her, then said loudly to Erik, "You're right. Telepathy would be the worst. Most people are really stupid."

 


	11. Relief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written for a musical inspiration prompt on Tumblr - https://madamefaust.tumblr.com/post/184412605472/music-inspo-42 The prompt was Elton John's 'Sad Songs'. Takes place pre-TMAFT, after Erik gets to rehab the second time.

If your gut reaction to a relationship ending was relief, it was probably a sign that it wasn’t a very good relationship.

That’s not what the therapist he was seeing at the clinic said. He (Rick? He introduced himself in the first session, but Erik had forgotten and was too embarrassed to ask since he was seeing the man daily), actually said, ‘Relief might indicate that the relationship ended a little past its due date. Of course, with any relationship - especially a first romantic relationship - there are a lot of feelings to parse, and relief can often be part of the mix.’

But relief wasn’t just ‘in the mix.’ It was the whole bag. 

Which was  _insane_ , if you really thought about it. And Erik was forced to think about it, all day, every day, there was nothing to do but think and ruminate in between the mandatory physical therapy and CBT and demonstrations of non-chemical pain relief techniques (he was never doing yoga again).  _Insane_  because this relationship was his only romantic relationship in thirty years.  _Insane_  because even if it was  _bad_ , it was  _something_.  _Insane_  because he’d probably never get another chance at, if not love, at least an occasional warm body in his bed and occasional affection.

Occasional affection. More often, criticism. And impatience. ‘ _You’re supposed to be a protege, right? A boy wonder of the music world? Then why isn’t this bridge sorted out? You’ve got to be good for_ something _, right?’_

But there was none of the regret Rick (Ryan? Maybe Ryan?) talked about. Just relief that every time he got a phone call, he didn’t have to worry about whether he’d get to enjoy inane chit-chat about their respective days or a litany of complaints about why Erik had to be so very ordinary, so very disappointing - was his shoulder bothering him? Did he need  _something_  for it? Because he could get something, the  _good_  stuff, if it meant Erik would stop being so mundane.

No more lying. No more walking that thin tightrope that separated the roles of ‘boyfriend’ and ‘dealer’ and ‘employer.’ It was all done.

Erik hadn’t had a word from Alexis since he transferred from the hospital to rehab. No anxious inquiries about his health. No thinly-veiled accusations, couched in concern, that people might wonder exactly where the pills and the needles came from. Alexis had washed his hands of him - well, probably taken the score they’d collaborated on first, but he was done. Erik proved himself to be the disappointment Alexis always thought he was. And so he’d gone. Presumably never to return. 

Erik knew he should feel some more complicated emotion. Even negative emotions - bitterness about how he’d been treated, guilt over using his boyfriend to get heroin, general misery knowing he’d had some of the trappings of a relationship, but without the feelings, without  _love_ , even…

But now that it was a over -  _all_  of it was over - the only thing Erik felt was relief.


	12. Masks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A sad little story of how Erik made up his mind to wear the mask full time, not just as a necessity for school. **Warning** for **references to suicide**.

There was no way she thought he’d overheard her. If she had, no doubt she would have kept her thoughts to herself. They were in a church, after all, and what she said wasn’t very Godly.

_If I looked like that, I’d kill myself._

It had been playing over and over in his head since he heard her. A girl he didn’t know - he didn’t know what she looked like. She was just a voice, a harsh whisper, rushed, almost embarrassed sounding. He’d turned when he heard her. She was talking about him. Of course she was talking about him. 

_If I looked like that, I’d kill myself._

He looked back, on instinct. But he couldn’t put a face to the voice. There were a bunch of girls. Teenagers. Older than him. Was it the one with the long brown hair? The short, curly blonde hair? The shoulder-length black hair? Did it matter?

_If I looked like that, I’d kill myself._

Erik looked away, biting his lip, eyes on the floor. He shouldn’t look at them. His face bothered them. It bothered everyone. Him most of all. 

It wasn’t something he just forgot about. It was always there, especially when he left the house. Worrying about what people would say or do. Usually the answer was nothing. They’d look past him. Pretend he didn’t exist. If they did that all the time it might be easier. But they didn’t do it all the time and it was the uncertainty that ate away at him, that made him worry. That made every outing a potential minefield. Even going to church with his grandparents.

Nona and Papa were talking to the priest and Erik stayed in the pew. His head had been tilted back when he’d heard her. He’d been looking at the tall stained glass windows, trying to guess what the Latin inscriptions meant. There was quiet murmuring all around, families making plans for lunch and dinner. A group of girls who knew each other from the parish school, worrying about a test they had on Monday. They hadn’t been talking about him at all - until one of them looked over and noticed him. That was when she said it.

_If I looked like that, I’d kill myself._

Erik stopped looking at the windows. He wished he was in the car, on the way home. He’d been looking forward to leaving, they were supposed to go to his aunt and uncle’s house for burgers and hot dogs. They had a pool. And a Slip N Slide. But now he wasn’t hungry and he didn’t want to go out. He wanted to go home. He wanted his mask. 

Nona and Papa didn’t like for him to wear it. Neither did Mom. Said he didn’t need it. That it was other people’s problem if they didn’t like the way he looked. 

But it  _was_  his problem. It was his problem when little kids pointed and their parents shushed their questions,  _What’s wrong with that boy?_  hurrying them away like he had a contagious disease. It was his problem when his face caught people off-guard in the streets or in the check-out at the grocery store or the duck pond at the park and they screamed or gasped or covered their mouths like just looking at him made them sick. It was his problem when teenagers said that if they had a face like he did, they’d kill themselves. 

When they left, when they were in the car, Erik asked tentatively if they could stop by the house before they went to Uncle Guy and Auntie Tina’s. 

 _Why?_  Nona asked, turning around in the passenger seat to look at him in concern.  _Are you feeling okay, honey?_

Erik shook his head. Said he felt fine.  _I just want to get my mask. So that I don’t -_

 _No, you don’t need that_ , Papa said, his hands tightening on the steering wheel.  _No one’s going to have a problem - and if they do, they can come to me. You don’t have to worry about that, okay, Erik? You don’t have to worry at all._

A group of kids were pedaling by on their bicycles. Erik shrank down as small as he could in the backseat, turning his face away from the window; he didn’t want them to see him and then lose control of their bikes. 

_If I looked like that, I’d kill myself._

Erik  _did_  look ‘like that.’ Did those girls think he should kill himself?

Papa took a left toward his uncle’s house, not a right toward their house. The kids passed on their bikes; no one noticed him. But that didn’t mean Erik didn’t have anything to worry about. This time it was okay. But maybe it wouldn’t be, next time. Maybe they’d see him, next time. Maybe they’d scream. Maybe they’d point and laugh. Maybe…

_If I looked like that, I’d kill myself._

Maybe next time he visited his grandparents, he just leave the mask on the whole time. 


	13. Father's Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just HAD to do something with these two for Father's Day. 
> 
> **Warning:** For references to **bodily injury** and **drug addiction**.

**October, 1993**

They wouldn't let Gerry in to see him.

Erik was in surgery. They were attempting to stabilize him. The linoleum had melted into the skin, causing substantial damage in addition to the deep tissue burns. There was shock to consider. Potential permanent damage to his lungs from smoke inhalation. A medically induced coma would be his best chance - if they were able to get him breathing on his own. 

_Have you ever considered organ donation?_

It was like Gerry snapped back into consciousness from a deep sleep. As though he'd been comatose himself. The frantic drive to the hospital, the race to the nurse's station in the ER, the deafening hammering of his heart, it was all a blur, from the phone call to the theatre, the words, _Mr. Carriere? I'm afraid there's been an accident..._ it all felt like background noise compared to that one question.

_Have you ever considered organ donation?_

No, he hadn't. He still hadn't gotten done deciding what Erik's Halloween costume was going to be this year - Luke Skywalker or Donatello from _Ninja Turtles_. Gerry had been hoping for Luke Skywalker. It would give him a chance to get his Vader mask out of mothballs. _Join me and together we can rule the galaxy as father and son..._

The ER tech wisely side-stepped him as Gerry crumpled to the ground, back sliding against the wall since his legs would no longer hold him up. Supremely compassionate, she knelt down next to him, placing a hesitant hand on his shoulder as he buried his face in his hands and sobbed, howled, really.

A conspicuous show of grief on a man who prided himself on keeping it together, no matter what life through at him. A theatre company constantly on the brink of financial collapse. A wife whose connection to reality got thinner and thinner with each passing week. A divorce. When they averted a nasty custody battle, he foolishly thought he'd won. Turned out he should have fought harder to get sole custody. Because of his complacency, his attempts to be generous and conciliatory and easy-going, his son was fighting for his life. A fight it seemed the tech was already convinced he'd lost; why else would she be asking about organ donation?

Gerry had no idea how long he was there, collapsed on the white linoleum, ( _the linoleum melted into his skin, causing additional damage, especially on the right side of the torso and head, most of the right foot will have to be amputated)_ , crying his eyes out while the tech knelt beside him, biting her lip, not saying anything. 

Eventually he got up and transferred to a chair. The tech left. No one else approached him until the head surgeon, a small Nigerian man tapped him on the shoulder. He was wearing a clean white shirt and a pressed pair of pants. Not scrubs. He'd taken the time to change after surgery. Gerry didn't know if that was good or bad.

He said a lot of things. That he was sorry Gerry was kept waiting. That Erik was breathing on his own without a respirator and that any respiratory damage appeared to be minimal. That there would be necessary reconstructive procedures, but they could discuss that at a later date. Gerry hardly heard anything until the doctor asked, _Would you like to see him, now?_

Suddenly, his legs worked. He was up and almost out of the room like a shot, only he didn't know the way. And there were preparations to be made. 

Erik was in the ICU. Gerry had to wear scrubs and a face mask to be let in the room. Disinfect his hands and put gloves on. Precautions against infections that would last for weeks and begin again every time Erik had another procedure. But Gerry didn't know that, then. He just knew that he was finally being permitted to see the son he'd almost lost. 

It might have been any other kid, lying there. That's how bound up in bandages he was. It was a mark of how extensive the damage was, just how little of his son he could see. The face was completely obscured. There was a tiny tuft of curly red hair poking out between the bandages on the left side of the head, a small patch that hadn't been lost in the fire or shaved during the surgery. The right hand and right leg were totally bandaged, the gauze so thickly packed that Gerry wouldn't have known half his foot was missing if he hadn't been told. There was a glimpse of a knobbly left knee. The tiny fingers of his left hand poked out where the gauze was wrapped less thickly. IVs were strung around the bed. A heart monitor beeped quietly in the background. A machine delivering extra oxygen whirled.

The nurse encouraged Gerry to talk to him. Kids responded to their parents' voices. _Either you or his momma's voice would be good for him right now._

She couldn't have known what happened to make that suggestion. Couldn't have known that his momma was being treated at Massachusetts General. And neither of them knew he'd never hear her voice, as he remembered it, ever again. 

The nurse tried to make herself inconspicuous. Turned away from them, focused on a clipboard, her eyes flitting restlessly from monitor to monitor.

Gerry dragged a chair to the bedside with a harsh scrape. The mask he was wearing felt hot and humid from his own ragged breathing, but he couldn't take it off. Couldn't risk Erik like that. He seemed so fragile - he was so fragile - lying in that bed, hooked up to those monitors, wrapped in those bandages. Tentatively, Gerry brushed his large gloved fingers against Erik's limp, exposed left hand. There was no responding twitch. No motion at all. His little fingertips were icy cold. 

Gerry tried to speak up, but his voice failed him. It would be hoarse from crying, but he could hardly bring himself to make a sound. 

_Kids respond to their parents voices. Either you or his momma's voice would be good for him right now._

Gerry cleared his aching throat and tried again. 

"Hey, buddy," he managed. "I...I love you so much. Hang in there, alright?"

Gerry's voice was strained and wet with tears, even though he thought he was all cried out. Behind him the heart monitor beeped a little faster.  

* * *

**July 2017**

They wouldn't let Gerry in to see him.

The police were there, taking a statement, serving him a restraining order. The nurse who stopped Gerry outside the door muttered under his breath that it was ridiculous to talk to someone on Narcan; Erik probably wouldn't remember there _was_ a restraining order, come morning. _Can I have someone get you a chair while you wait, sir?_

No, Gerry shook his head grimly. He'd stand while he waited.

The nurse nodded and left him alone. Fifteen minutes later, two uniformed officers emerged from the room, one of them looking him up and down as they passed Gerry in the hallway. 

 _Must be the father_ , he remarked to his coworker.

The other officer replied rhetorically, _How can you tell?_

Striking an officer of the law would be an offense that would benefit neither of Carriere men, so Gerry merely clenched his hands and turned his face away, swallowing hard. The nurse from earlier came back and asked if Gerry could wait just another minute more. 

It was five minutes later that the nurse told Gerry he could come in. That Erik was sleeping - he'd given him a sedative. But it never hurt to talk to a patient. The sound of a parent's voice helped, he smiled thinly. Even _really_ big kids. 

The nurse took off down the hall, leaving Gerry alone in the room which smelled strongly of disinfectant, over less palatable scents of sweat and vomit. The lights were dim and for a second, rather than seeing Erik, newly turned thirty, taller than his father, Gerry was plunged twenty-four years in the past, looking at the little boy he'd nearly lost, hooked up to IVs and monitors. The old fear clawed up his throat and made his mouth dry, brought tears to his eyes. It hadn't been like this, last time. Last time, Erik had been seventeen and conscious and they'd argued about it.

At least Gerry had. He'd still towered over him then and screamed himself hoarse, brandishing a half-empty pill bottle with the label torn off. Vicodin. Months and months after Erik's own prescription had run out, he was still taking pills. Someone else's pills. One a day, usually, Erik confessed in a tight whisper. Sometimes two. Sometimes three. Maybe more. He didn't really remember.

_What the hell is wrong with you? This could ruin your life, you know! Are you stupid? Are you that fucking stupid that you're going to sacrifice your whole future?_

There had been tears running in the irregular rivets down Erik's cheeks, but they didn't cool the heat of Gerry's fury or his own guilt. How had he not known? How could he have let this happen?

 _It hurts, Dad_ , Erik said finally, unable to look at his father, shoulders hunched in - including the right shoulder that had been operated on earlier in the year, drawn down tightly as Erik tried to make himself as small a target as possible for his father's rage. _It still really hurts._

But they'd done rehab. Therapy. Even now, over ten years later, Erik loved nothing more than to complain about how Nordic Tracks were the devil and only insane people ran for fun. Though, come to think of it, Erik's litanies against the evils of exercise were fewer and farther between these days. A sign Gerry missed.

There were more, he saw, as he raked his eyes over Erik's body lying in the hospital bed - an adult now, not the tiny six-year-old he'd once been, but still the little boy he'd nearly lost. They'd put him in a short-sleeved hospital johnny and Gerry saw that his left arm - the good arm, the side that suffered the least amount of damage in the fire - was littered with swollen track marks, bruised and ugly. Erik always wore long-sleeved shirts, even in the summertime. Gerry thought it was to cover up the old burn scars on his arms. Now he knew he was covering another kind of scarring entirely.

Gerry wasn't covered up this time, no face mask or scrubs necessary, though Erik had apparently torn open some of the grafts on his face. How or why, he had no idea. Erik probably didn't either. When the EMTs got to the house, they said he'd been almost gone. They brought him back. Had Gerry been worried about Erik losing scholarship money years ago? Getting kicked out of his private school? Paltry concerns when the police were serving him a restraining order in a hospital room. 

What was it this time, he wanted to ask. Was the shoulder acting up again? They'd operated again, but Erik swore he'd told the doctors about his past history and asked not to be prescribed opioids. Had they not listened? And if they hadn't listened and wrote him a script anyway, why hadn't Erik given it to him to throw away? 

 _Because he's an addict_ , the reasonable part of Gerry's brain told him. _That's what addicts do._

Why did you do it? Gerry wanted to scream at him, the way he had when Erik was seventeen. I've worked all my life to keep you alive - to give you a _life_. Why would you fuck it up like this?

But Gerry didn't scream. Didn't shake him until Erik woke up from whatever sedative they gave him and could look him in the face and give him an answer. Didn't throw himself down on his son and hold him, like that would not only keep him alive, but make him want to _live_.

Instead Gerry approached the side of the bed. Dragged a chair over. Tentatively ran his large, blunt fingers, over Erik's larger, but more slender ones. There was an answering twitch of motion under his hand.

"Hey, buddy," Gerry said, his voice tight with anger and grief. "I love you _so_ fucking much. Hang in there, alright?"

* * *

**June 2018**

**Is it okay if I come up and see you?**

Gerry looked down at his phone just as there was a knock at his office door and Erik poked his head in. 

"I texted you," he said, nodding toward the phone in his father's hand. "But you never look at your phone, so..."

"Come in," Gerry said, staring to rise, but Erik motioned for him to stay seated.

"I just ran by to drop something off," he explained, in a slightly high, babbling tone he got when he was nervous. Most people probably wouldn't have noticed, but Gerry knew his son pretty well and it was on the tip of his tongue to asked, _What have you done now?_

Erik walked the rest of the way in. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, prompted by the heat and humidity, but he was still wearing jeans. Gerry was fairly sure he didn't actually own shorts. His left arm rose to rake through his hair, another nervous tic, but one he'd inherited directly from his father. The track marks, so prominent last year, had faded to the point that you had to really be looking to notice them. There was a cardboard box under Erik's right arm, the top torn open with a bright yellow envelop poking out from inside. 

"Happy Belated Father's Day," Erik said, dropping the box on Gerry's desk. "Um. Yeah. I'd say that the post office screwed me, but I literally ordered this Saturday night. So. Um. Sorry."

"That's okay," Gerry said automatically. Then even more automatically added, "You didn't have to get me anything - "

But he cut off when he lifted the box's contents out and looked at his present up close.

"The complete Toho run of _Godzilla_ movies in glorious high-def blu-ray form," Erik explained unnecessarily. He grinned and nodded at the envelop that had fallen onto Gerry's desk. "The card goes with it. It's kind of themed."

Gerry opened the card. It was clearly intended to be given as a Father's Day card from an actual kid - there were two cartoon monkeys on the cover, one larger and wearing a tie, one smaller and wearing a baseball cap. The inside of the card featured the two monkeys swinging on a vine together, the little one on the big one's back. In giant cartoon letters it read: THANKS FOR HANGING IN THERE WITH ME, DAD! HAPPY FATHER'S DAY!

Erik had added a quick note: _Thanks for never giving up on me. Love, Erik_

Once again, Gerry's throat closed and he found he'd lost his voice. Erik spoke into the ensuing silence - babbling again.

"I know, it's schmaltzy," he said, flailing his hands around as he talked (a habit he picked up from his mom, not Gerry). "And, you know, _late_ so...yeah. I'm so- "

But he didn't get to finish his apology. Because Gerry did what he couldn't do when Erik was six and in the hospital, or when he was thirty and in the hospital. He got up from his desk, approached his son, and squeezed him in a bone-crushing hug.  

Erik hugged him back, head dropping onto his father's shoulder, the false nose of the mask pressed against Gerry's shirt.

"Thanks for the present, it's perfect," Gerry managed tightly - yeah, crying again, a little, but these were happy tears. He was here. He was healthy and solid and he was holding him. It was...fine. It would all be fine. "Love you, buddy."

"You're welcome," Erik replied, smiling against his father's shirt. "Love you too, Dad." 


End file.
